


hyper heart alone

by hito



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Big Bang, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles returns home to help his father recover from an injury, he discovers that things have changed somewhat in his absence: Derek is working closely with Stiles' father, around the house and underfoot, generally annoying and disconcerting Stiles with his presence. </p><p>Well, Stiles isn't sure you could call all the sex they end up having <i>annoying</i>, but he isn't really willing to call it anything else, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hyper heart alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rubykatewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubykatewriting/gifts).



> Written for the big bang also:), from a kinkmeme prompt. Gorgeous art and [amazing mix](http://birddi.tumblr.com/post/31211076925/hyper-heart-alone-by-hito-when-stiles-returns) by the wonderful birddi! Thanks so much! Thanks to diva0789 for helping me out with the first half of this and really being the only reason I kept going. And then rubykatewriting betaed this for me and was incredibly helpful, but more than that, was really the only reason it was finished, and definitely the only reason it's being posted, and not enough thanks exist. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

Stiles is stiff when he pulls up in front of the house and kills the engine. He rolls his shoulders, shakes out his elbows, blinks dry, tired eyes as he stares through the windscreen at the placid, patient whitewashed wood of the house. The lace curtains he remembers stare back at him, unmoving. The grass is green and neatly-trimmed, shining and sun-dappled, and he’s almost hypnotised by it when a rap on the car window startles him. 

A woman is smiling widely at him through the glass, giving him an open-handed wave. 

He rolls down the window. “Hi, Mrs Sylvester,” he says, crossing his fingers behind his back. He’s pretty sure she’s Mrs Sylvester, but it’s been a while. 

“Stiles!” she says. “How are you? It’s so good to see you, even though the circumstances aren’t—“ 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I can’t really stop, I have a lot to do today, but it is wonderful to see you Mrs Sylvester, and I hope you’ll drop by in a couple days, when I’ve had a chance to get settled in.” 

“Of course!” she says, warm and flustered. “I understand how difficult this must be for you. I’ll come by tomorrow with a little something. Is chicken casserole still—“ She breaks off, looking unsure. “Can your—“ 

“It’s still my favourite,” Stiles lies, smiling easily at her. “That would be very kind of you.” 

“Of course,” she says, smiling again, stepping back from the car. “Of course. And tell—“ 

“I will,” Stiles says, and keeps smiling as he rolls the window back up. 

He doesn’t know why he stopped here to begin with. 

He starts the car again and sets off for the hospital. 

*

It takes a while to get to his dad’s room, and when he arrives his father is alternately attempting to charm and abusing the poor nurse who’s gotten herself stuck with him. 

“You’re going to need a wheelchair just as much as you needed help dressing,” she snaps once he pauses to draw breath, and Stiles winces. “And if you think I’m going to let you undo—“ 

“Stiles!” his dad blurts, sounding considerably less pleased to see him than Mrs Sylvester had. 

The nurse turns a cool, assessing gaze on him. “I can only hope your son has more sense and less bullheaded idiocy than you do, Sheriff,” she says primly, and sweeps towards the exit. “I’ll be back,” she tells Stiles on her way past, and he accords the threat the respect it is surely due. 

“Damned busybody,” his father mutters unhappily. 

He looks tired and pale, but no more than that. 

“Me?” Stiles asks lightly. “Because I can go.” 

“I know you can,” his dad says sharply. “I did notice that you are capable.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says awkwardly. “Well, I’m here now.” 

“I do appreciate the trouble,” his dad says, and Stiles’ step forward falters, but he recovers quickly, unlike his father, and keeps walking until the rough bedspread is under his fingers. 

“Are they almost ready to let you check out?” 

“They were almost ready two hours ago,” his dad complains, sinking back against the raised mattress. 

“Want me to try and speed them along?” 

“Nah,” his dad says. “My ministering angel’ll just dig her heels in.” 

“I did get that impression,” Stiles says. “Not your biggest fan?” 

His dad starts muttering again, but nothing that Stiles can decipher. 

Stiles sits gingerly on the end of the bed. “So—“ he starts, but his dad just huffs and stares up at the ceiling. Even the muttering goes silent. 

Stiles can take a hint. 

When the nurse reappears, she takes in the scene at a glance and throws Stiles a pretty effective deathglare. 

“ _Sheriff_ Stilinski,” she begins, tone long-suffering, “Dr Michaels will have your papers ready soon. I’m going to need to go through some care instructions with your son.” 

She’s matter-of-fact about it, but she throws a worried look at Stiles’ dad, and he doesn’t look away from the ceiling when he mutters his agreement. 

She doesn’t come any closer, so Stiles goes towards her, and she draws back into the corridor. 

“Mr Stilinski,” she says, and Stiles should be used to hearing that from actual adults now, but he isn’t sure he ever will be. Her voice is gentle, and Stiles braces himself. “I want you to know that your father is expected to make a good recovery.” 

“But,” Stiles says, and she smiles at him. He doesn’t know why people keep doing that today. 

“But it’s going to take some time, and if you can’t persuade him to adhere strictly to our recommendations it’s going to take a _lot_ of time.” 

Stiles’ eyes dart around, flickering over her nametag, the trolley full of files, the crisp folds of her collar. “What are your recommendations?” 

“Your father sustained a very serious wound,” she says. “I don’t expect he’s told you there will be permanent damage?” 

“No,” Stiles says. “He hasn’t told me much at all.” 

She nods. “It won’t impair his quality of life,” she says, “as long as he doesn’t damage it further.” 

“And you think he will.” 

“He’s a very stubborn man.” 

“He’ll be able—“ Stiles swallows. “It won’t prevent him from working? He’ll be able to fulfil his duties.” 

“He will,” she says, though the tilt of her head looks doubtful. “To a large degree and after a recovery period.” 

Stiles exhales hard, and listens closely to everything she tells him. 

When they go back inside, Helen says, “Dr Michaels signed your discharge papers.” 

“When?” his dad asks suspiciously. 

“Two hours ago,” she says breezily. 

Stiles grabs his dad’s packed bag, and watches as his father pushes himself into a sitting position, watches him freeze in pain halfway through the movement. 

Stiles rushes to support his father’s back, but his father bats his hands away, so Stiles watches as Helen has to help his father sit up. 

*

Stiles’ dad has one hand on the car door and is slowly twisting his upper body back around to close it when Stiles snatches the door away from him, slams it, and ignores the disgruntled look his dad gives him. 

The house is just as it was earlier, blank and still, but next door’s curtains twitch, and a woman peers out at them. “Who’s that?” Stiles asks, shouldering one of his duffels and taking his dad’s bag in the other hand. 

“Jessica Torrance,” his dad says. “She’d be a few years older than you. Away at college when the family arrived. Moved back when her mom died and she inherited the house.” 

Stiles waves quickly and turns his face away, not wanting to encourage her. He’s going to be here for a while, but not long enough that he plans to make any new friends. He walks towards the house, trying to pace himself without looking like he is, so his dad can keep up. His dad outstrips him, actually, and Stiles’ heart leaps until they stop at the front door and he realises his dad’s struggling for breath a little. He doesn’t acknowledge it, just digs in his pocket for his keychain. 

“You’ll have to go by the hardware,” he says. “Get one cut.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “After I get the rest of my stuff in. I’ll make a list of groceries too.” 

He has to get his dad’s prescription filled as well, but he doesn’t mention that. 

“You talked to Scott yet?” his dad asks. 

“No,” Stiles says. When he glances at the phone the message light is flashing, and it starts ringing as though the thought has triggered it. 

“Speak of the devil,” his dad says. 

“I should help—“ Stiles says, but his dad is already moving towards the bathroom, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder. 

Stiles picks up the phone. 

“Hello?” he says, and he doesn’t mean to be cautious, but that’s the way it comes out. 

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice says, and despite everything, Stiles relaxes when he hears the excitement in it. 

“Hey,” he says. “Scott. How are you?” 

“I’m fine, man, I’m totally fine. How are you? How’s your dad doing?” 

There’s warm concern in his voice, same as Mrs Sylvester’s. Stiles supposes he can expect that from everyone he has to have this conversation with, but he responds to it anyway. 

“I’m fine. My dad’s good. He’s going to be good.” 

“Not the same thing,” Scott says wryly, and Stiles shrugs before he realises Scott can’t see it, same way he’d done when he was a kid. 

His dad reappears as Stiles says, “No, but it’s looking good.” 

His dad makes his way up the stairs, and Stiles keeps an eye on his slow progress as Scott asks, “You’re going to be in town for a while, though?” 

“I’m so glad you have your priorities straight, dude,” Stiles says. “My little vacay lasting a while is _totally_ what counts here.” 

“You know what I mean,” Scott says impatiently. “Are you?” 

“Rest of the summer,” Stiles confirms, watching his dad’s feet vanish up the last few steps, tread ponderous. “School starts back end of August.” 

“ _Awesome_!” Scott exclaims, and Stiles has to laugh, lightened by the smile he can’t contain. 

“Yeah?” he asks affectionately. 

“Dude!” Scott says. “We’ll all come over tonight! I mean, if that’s okay? If your dad isn’t up to it—“ 

“It’ll be fine,” Stiles says. “It’s hardly going to be a rager.” 

That much is true, at least. 

*

Stiles has been back to Beacon Hills a couple of times since he left, for the odd Christmas here and there, and to act as best man at Scott and Allison’s wedding, but the visits had tapered off through the years, and when the entire pack had been out of town the last time he came he decided to take that as a sign. So he has been back since the wedding; he just hasn’t seen anyone. 

“That doesn’t count!” Lydia says. “And why are you calling it _the_ wedding, it was no such thing! If any wedding was _the_ wedding it was mine! Not that you’d know.” 

“I know,” Stiles says peaceably. “I know. I was really sorry to miss it, but I’d just started a new job and I couldn’t get away.” He hadn’t and he could have. 

Lydia narrows her eyes at him. “Jackson is bringing the DVD,” she says meanly. “Since you couldn’t even be bothered to watch the clips we put up.” He had watched; he just hadn’t had anything to say. 

“You looked beautiful,” he offers. 

She still does, hair gleaming in the setting sun coming through the kitchen window, and he thinks her air of unhappiness is directly caused by his presence, rather than being intrinsic to her, the way he remembers. 

“And it would have killed you to tell me that two years ago,” she says. 

Stiles shrugs, not quite able to meet her eyes, and when the doorbell chimes she makes an exasperated noise and goes to answer, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the spotless kitchen. 

Scott’s hug almost knocks him off his feet, so it takes him a minute to register Allison’s presence. He had known she was pregnant, of course, but there’s knowing and there’s _knowing_. 

“Stiles!” Scott is saying, hands still on his shoulders, holding him there. “It is so great to see you, I’m so glad you’re here, not that I would have wished any of this, but really this is the best result I could have hoped for—“ 

“Wow,” Stiles says, dazed, and he isn’t even talking about Scott’s continuing lack of ability to modulate himself in any way, shape or fashion. 

“—we weren’t sure you were ever going to come back, so—“ 

“End of the summer,” Stiles says, and pushes past Scott to get to Allison. “You two’ve been busy since the last time I saw you.” 

“Stiles,” Allison says happily, and reaches up for a hug. It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but they manage it. 

“Seven months?” he guesses. 

“And a half,” she says, widening her eyes at him and grinning. “Yeah. I can’t really believe it.” 

“Me neither, dude,” Stiles says, and they both mean it, but they’re smiling, so he thinks maybe that’s okay. 

Then of course he has to hear all about it from Scott: Allison’s sonograms; their child’s perfect, gorgeous heartbeat; the cream Allison likes him to rub onto her belly; Allison’s swollen feet; Allison’s waddle— And then Allison whacks him, and Stiles escapes their fight into the kitchen, just in time to save the last of the cupcakes he’d bought that afternoon from Lydia’s boredom. 

“There were six of these!” he hisses in annoyance. 

“There were five and now there’s two!” Lydia says. “I am at the Research Institute, you know. Subtraction is a must.” 

“My dad had one, and there was one left for everyone else,” Stiles says. “You couldn’t just have eaten Jackson’s, you had to eat mine?” 

“Hmm,” Lydia says, tilting her head towards the knock on the front door. “I realise you’re a _grade-school teacher_ , but I didn’t think your brain would have stagnated to such a degree.” 

“What?” 

“There’s six of us,” she says, and then Scott is opening the door to Jackson and Derek. 

*

The last time Stiles saw Derek was at the wedding, where he lurked in the background like the creeper he’s always been. 

The last time Stiles spoke to him was the day before he was due to leave Beacon Hills for college, though he hadn’t realised then that it would be a permanent move. 

The conversation didn’t go very well. 

*

“Jackson,” Stiles says, striding towards the front door with his hand held out. “Derek.” 

Stiles is expecting a handshake, but Jackson does some sort of hand-clap-clasp thing that is both friendlier and way more teenage than Stiles had been expecting. 

“Hey, man,” Jackson says, “good to see you,” and walks straight past Scott and Allison’s frostiness to join Lydia in the sanctuary of the kitchen. 

“Derek,” Stiles says, getting in first. 

“Stiles,” Derek says stiffly. “It’s been a while.” 

“Not long enough,” Stiles says, then remembers Scott and Allison are listening in and adds, “Given the circumstances.” 

“I’m sorry about your father,” Derek says, and although Stiles thinks it’s genuinely meant it’s still awkward. “I know he’s doing well.” 

“You do?” 

“I’ve heard he’s doing well,” Derek clarifies, telling Stiles exactly nothing. 

And Stiles doesn’t want to ask when Derek got a line to the grapevine installed, so he says, “He isn’t doing well.” 

“As well as can be expected,” Derek says after a moment, rather than offering the baseless, meaningless reassurances Stiles had expected. 

It makes him irrationally irritated, because Derek appears to know more about the situation than Stiles had this morning, because he thinks this might be Derek trying to be sensitive. “About as well,” he says, and walks past Scott and Allison’s surprised faces to where Lydia is saying, “No, I ate your cupcake and Scott’s too, although if you want to eat Allison’s go right ahead. I need some entertainment tonight.” 

“Sorry I’m boring you,” Stiles says, counting the minutes until he can claim his dad needs him and end the night early. “Did Jackson bring the pictures?” 

“Did someone say cupcake?” Allison asks, Scott’s eager face hovering over her shoulder, problems forgotten in the face of pastry. 

“I want a cupcake!” Scott says brightly. 

“There isn’t enough—“ Stiles says, while Lydia contributes, “Stiles is a terrible host, he—“ 

“—because Lydia ate everyone’s—“ 

“I can have Stiles’,” Jackson says. 

“Stiles can’t count and is excluded from consideration,” Lydia says. “He never had one to start with.” 

“I want one,” Allison says plaintively, so of course Lydia says, “ _I_ want one!” mutinously. 

Derek snatches both cupcakes from Jackson’s greedy hands. 

“You don’t even like cupcakes!” Lydia protests, and Derek hands one over to Allison, hesitates while his pack watches him like a nestful of hungry baby birds vying for the last scrap, and shoves the remaining morsel at Stiles. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, startled. “I don’t—“ 

“Eat it,” Derek instructs, and the food is crumbling in Stiles’ mouth before he realises he’s put it there, before he even sees Lydia reaching to steal it back. 

He swallows quickly and licks across the rest of the cupcake. She subsides, glaring. 

“Wow,” Stiles says. “That went south fast.” 

*

It’s later when Scott leans in close and says, “Your dad’s okay, though, right?” 

The slideshow of Lydia and Jackson’s wedding is playing on the TV and everybody else is staring at it with glazed eyes. Scott is speaking quietly, like he thinks Stiles has somehow forgotten the rest of the room is listening in. They’ve gotten better at hiding it, at least. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles says blankly, watching Lydia’s radiant smile flash out at him. “I think so, yeah. Mostly. He’s my dad.” 

“Yeah,” Scott says unhappily, and bumps his shoulder against Stiles in an attempt at comfort. It isn’t very effective, but it’s nice that he’s trying. 

“ _Some people_ aren’t _paying attention_ ,” Lydia says pointedly, and Scott sits up straight like he’s the one she was addressing. 

“Some people have seen this seventeen times,” Derek mutters, and Stiles smiles despite himself. 

It’s later than Stiles was expecting when they all leave at Derek’s prompting, with easy cheek-kisses and shoulder-thumps and promises to talk tomorrow. 

It’s strange. 

He isn’t sure if he likes the way things are now; he isn’t sure if he wants them back to the way they used to be or if he just doesn’t want to have to deal with any of it. 

It’s a relief when they’re gone. 

Stiles goes through the house checking windows and doors. He doesn’t see the DVD until he circles back around to the living room. It’s sitting on the coffee table in its jewelcase, a bright yellow post-it obscuring the picture of Lydia and Jackson wreathed in flowers that serves as the inlay. Lydia has printed HOMEWORK! on it in large, obnoxious letters. 

Stiles watches it again before he goes to bed, watches his own strained smiles, the relaxed happiness of his friends, Derek always hovering halfway out of the frame, a dark, lingering presence; and then he has to go up the stairs, skipping past the squeaking step so he won’t wake his father, listen carefully for his father’s breathing in the still and silent bedroom, and then go and get into his cramped childhood bed so he can try and sleep until morning when he’ll have to do it all again. 

*

“Dad,” Stiles says, when he stumbles into the kitchen in the morning, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “you weren’t supposed to get up before me.” And then he sees Derek, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a sheriff’s office uniform on his back. 

“Deputy,” Stiles says faintly. 

“Undersheriff,” Derek corrects, and Stiles nods mechanically. 

“I told you I was working with Derek, right?” his dad says. 

“Uh,” Stiles says. “ _No_. No you did not!” 

“I’m sure I mentioned it,” his dad says. 

“I would have remembered!” Stiles says. “Mentioning isn’t the same as telling! Why didn’t you _warn_ me!” 

The sheriff looks at Derek askance, and Derek rises smoothly to his feet and hooks a hand around Stiles’ elbow. 

“It’s been a while since Stiles has seen his friends,” Derek says, which is both true, and a _total lie_ , in that he’s applying the word _friends_ to himself and Stiles. “We should catch up outside.” 

“Weren’t you over last night?” 

“Won’t be long, Fred,” Derek says, and drags Stiles out onto the porch. 

“Did you tell my dad we’re friends?” Stiles asks as Derek carefully shuts the door behind them. 

“No,” Derek says. 

“Because we aren’t friends.” 

Stiles thinks Derek looks uncomfortable, but it’s hard to read anything off Derek, and if it isn’t anger or some variation thereof Derek probably isn’t capable of feeling it anyway. 

“I didn’t claim friendship with you to get a job,” Derek says. 

“And what the _hell_?” Stiles hisses, cold fury lashing unreasonably fast and strong. “You’re a deputy?” 

“Under—“ 

“Undersheriff! You’re the undersheriff?” 

“Yes,” Derek says. 

“That,” Stiles says patiently, “was a request for an explanation.” 

Derek doesn’t answer as quickly as Stiles would like, so he says, “I mean, I can go and ask my dad what the hell he’s _thinking_ , if you’d prefer—“ 

“He doesn’t know I’m a werewolf,” Derek says. 

“Right,” Stiles says. “New fear, thanks.” 

“He thinks I’m a Wiccan.” 

“You told him you were a witch?” 

“Wiccan,” Derek corrects, like Stiles doesn’t know, like Stiles is the one who’s being ridiculous. “He thinks I need the full moon off for religious reasons. Your father is respectful of all alternative religions. Unless they’re actually cults, or involve ritualistic sex, or—“ 

“Yes,” Stiles interrupts. “Got it.” 

“Plus, it lets him tick that little box on his paperwork,” Derek finishes. “He likes that.” 

“Wiccan,” Stiles says. “Why?” 

“Because I wasn’t going to tell him I was a werewolf,” Derek says. “And after you left there was never a reason for him to know.” 

Stiles’ teeth snap together. He’d thought he’d gotten past this, hasn’t felt this angry in years, not since he left all this behind, not since he left _Derek_ behind. He hasn’t felt like this since the last time he spoke to Derek. 

He doesn’t like it. 

He doesn’t know how he feels about his life and the universe nowadays, hardly knows how he feels at all, but he knows he doesn’t like this. 

The doorknob twists sharply under his hand. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, halting his progress. “Scott is Wiccan too.” 

Stiles slams the door behind him, leaves Derek standing alone on the other side. 

*

“So, that’s weird,” Stiles says to his dad, can’t help himself. “Derek Hale as your undersheriff, really?” 

“He’s good at the job,” his dad says, muscles bunched in his shoulders as he pours hot water into his coffee-cup. He isn’t even _doing_ anything, just holding a kettle, but he can’t quite hide the wince as he sets it down. 

“But he’s Derek Hale,” Stiles says absently. “Hey, remember when you thought he was a crazed serial killer who cut his sister in half?” 

“Yes,” his dad says warily. 

“I miss that.” 

“Stiles,” his dad says, exasperated. “You’ve been back ten seconds, how are you like this already?” 

“I have a rich life overflowing with excitement and incident that keeps me constantly entertained and engaged,” Stiles says with dignity, ignoring how that sounds a little like an admission about the lack of engagement he’s feeling right now. “Everybody here got really boring,” he says in dissatisfaction. 

“I’m sure they’re devastated their lives fall short of your expectations,” his dad says. “Derek’s going to be working with me from home sometimes while I get back on my feet. You want to let him back in now and go entertain yourself while the grown-ups work?” 

“I’m going to find Scott,” Stiles says, and goes straight back out the front door, not acknowledging Derek’s hunched form still on the porch as he breezes past and flees the scene. 

*

Scott owns a garage way out past Monterey Lane. Business seems to be ticking over, but Scott lets his workers handle it while he sits in the tiny office with Stiles and flings a stressball at the walls. 

“I can’t believe you have two and a half employees,” Stiles says. 

“Part-time doesn’t make you half a man,” Scott says, and Stiles scoffs, because there’s no way he’s admitting Scott has _three_ employees. “And that’s hardly any.” 

“I can’t believe you have _one_ employee.” 

“Yeah,” Scott says, turning to grin at Stiles, and the rebounding stressball smacks him in the face. He catches it as it drops and keeps an eye on it when he throws it again. “I can’t believe people let you look after their _kids_. Remember when you babysat for Mrs Grant that one time and nearly got her kid a lapdance?” 

“It wasn’t my fault she didn’t know her son was a stripper!” Stiles says, face brightening with pleased outrage. “She was the one who told me to make sure his friends had everything they needed!” 

“Yeah,” Scott says, face soft with nostalgia, but he doesn’t prolong the argument, which Stiles almost regrets, because they’ve had it a hundred times, but not in years. “Nobody ever let you babysit again, though. I wouldn’t have pictured you ending up like this.” 

Stiles’ throat tightens, and for a minute the only sound is the rhythmic thump of the ball against the walls. “Yeah,” he says. “Me neither. It’s good, though. It’s a good life.” 

“Yeah?” Scott asks. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, hands spasming where they’re trapped between his knees. “I miss it.” 

“You’ve been back two days,” Scott says. “You haven’t had time to miss it. I miss you.” 

Stiles fees a sharp pang at that, but he shoves it away. “Yeah,” Stiles says. “Pretty nuts things ended up this way, right?” 

“Things didn’t just—“ Scott starts, voice rising with sudden frustration, but when he sees Stiles’ careful blankness the surge of emotion dissipates, and he sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty nuts.” 

And he throws his stressball. 

*

Stiles feels pretty haggard when he gets home—back to his dad’s place, later than he’d planned. 

It’s good being back, or it isn’t too bad, and it’s good seeing his friends. He has missed Scott, something he doesn’t really have room to acknowledge, just like he doesn’t have the capability of dealing with Scott’s injured feelings, and Scott has no right to expect him to do that, but Stiles feels the low burn of guilt anyway, an unwelcome reminder of the way he used to feel about Scott, the things he used to do for his best friend. 

He doesn’t do that anymore, doesn’t want to, doesn’t miss it, and if it means that he’s never quite managed to make another best friend, well, he has other things now. 

Things he wants and doesn’t, like the delivery-guy standing at the front door, handing a massive brown bag of takeout to Derek. 

“Thanks,” Derek says, and pulls the door open wider to admit Stiles. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says sarcastically. 

“You were late,” Derek says, shutting the door. “Your dad was hungry.” 

Stiles can’t tell if that’s actually criticism or if it just feels like it is because it’s coming from Derek, but either way he feels his blood pressure rise. 

“I don’t need you looking after my dad,” he says. 

Derek looks warily at Stiles, then the bag of food. “I got szechuan chicken,” he offers. 

“I don’t want szechuan chicken!” Stiles says. “And I don’t want you in my house!” 

Derek’s face smooths out. “It isn’t your house,” he says. 

“Excuse me?” Stiles hisses. 

“This hasn’t been your home in years. I’ve seen more of your father in the last two weeks than you have since you left, and he was in hospital for half of it. You really don’t want to run me off.” 

“I do,” Stiles says, heart pounding in his throat. “I really, really do.” 

“Well,” Derek says. “He wouldn’t thank you for it.” 

“You don’t get to shove your way back into my life,” Stiles says. “It isn’t fair.” 

Derek frowns like he’s actually puzzled by Stiles’ protest. “What isn’t fair?” 

And he _is_ puzzled, he really is, and that makes it so much worse. “I don’t want you to be here,” Stiles says instead. “I don’t want you telling me I’m a shitty son, and I don’t want to be here.” 

“That isn’t a problem I can fix,” Derek says after a minute. “You’re going to have to deal with it. But I’m involved in your father’s life, and you’re going to have to deal with me too.” 

Stiles breathes through that for a second, unbalanced by the strength of his reaction, trying to get himself under control. When he feels calmer, he says, “Never was able to manage that,” and watches Derek’s face flicker. “Guess I’ll just have to put up with you.” 

Derek holds the bag up again. “Want my house special?” he offers, and Stiles tries not to think about the fact that Derek remembered his favourite. 

“No,” he says, pushing past Derek into the living room. “Don’t do me any favours.” 

His dad makes him sit at the kitchen table with Derek. Derek got his dad’s favourite too, and Stiles is a little reassured that it’s the same, but he’s more resentful that Derek knows what it is. 

“Stiles,” his dad snaps, for the zillionth time. 

“Yes?” Stiles asks mildly, swallowing his chicken first. His dad gets uncomfortable whenever Stiles doesn’t react as he expects. Stiles isn’t really sure what to do with that. 

“I won’t be able to resume all of my duties immediately—“ 

“Helen told me you weren’t ready to go back to work at all,” Stiles says, heated. He doesn’t interrupt people anymore, but when his dad tries to speak he does it again, hurries out, “And do you think I haven’t seen you, do you think I haven’t noticed how weak you are? You can hardly move your arms, you can’t breathe properly yet, your chest is—your—“ 

His hands are shaking and he’s breathing in gasps, but his father’s lungs are probably never going to be right again, so he can’t really mind, even when he sees Derek’s eyes on him. He puts down his fork. 

“I can make calls, keep on top of things, keep people in line, but I’m not feeling up to much more than that,” his dad continues deliberately, ignoring his freakout completely, and the pauses for breath are barely noticeable, but Stiles notices. “There isn’t the staff to allocate this to, and Derek is busy out at the prison and he’s already picking up my slack. I need you to do this.” 

“Do what?” Stiles asks suspiciously. “Stop rationalising roping me in and tell me what it is. If I was going to balk it would have been when Helen told me I might have to _bathe you with a sponge_.” 

He isn’t exactly proud when his dad’s face sets, determinedly ignoring Derek’s presence for that little titbit, but he forces himself not to regret it. He isn’t a kid anymore, but he keeps acting like one here, with these people, and it has to be their fault because it isn’t his: this isn’t _him_. He handwaves all hypocrisy and the thought itself, and says, in his best teacher-voice, “Tell me,” and “ _No_ ,” when his dad does. “Not a chance in hell I am doing your _paperwork_.” 

Which, of course, is how he ends up down at the office with Derek the next morning. 

The place is empty, and it takes Stiles a second to remember it’s a Sunday, and Mary diverts the calls to her cell before noon. 

“Do you always work Sunday?” Stiles asks politely. 

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Mary gets in at noon.” Like Stiles is new. 

“What happened to Deputy Doug?” Stiles asks. 

“Went out to LA,” Derek explains briefly. “It isn’t too bad once Mary gets here. Quiet. Sundays, I mean.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “This isn’t your paperwork, is it? Because I’m not doing your paperwork. I mean, I’ll _shred_ it, I’ll do that for you—“ 

“No,” Derek says. “It isn’t my paperwork.” 

“So how does my dad even have any paperwork?” Stiles asks. “If all he’s doing is making phonecalls for the foreseeable. How much paperwork can there be?” 

“Um,” Derek says, and opens the door to the closet off his dad’s office where his assistant Petra used to sit before her position was restructured, which is to say eliminated, although her desk is still there, squeezed in among the document boxes stacked high, the messy piles of paper dumped on the floor. “He hasn’t really been in here since Petra left two years ago,” Derek says, sounding almost apologetic, and Stiles curses. 

Things _are_ better once Mary gets in. She brings a doggybag of blueberry pancakes and an unassailable air of cheerfulness into the office with her. 

“Afternoon!” she says when she spots Derek. “Next week you are coming to church with me young man, no excuses, you know nobody ever comes in here on a Sunday morning, they’re all too hungover to make trouble. I’m not going to get extra brunch for you anymore if you don’t—“ She breaks off when her eyes fall on Stiles, face empty and surprised before it lights up with recognition. “Oh! Stiles! We knew you were back in town, but—“ 

That’s all Stiles hears before he’s enfolded in warm arms and flowing scarves and flowery talcum-powder scent. She keeps speaking; he can feel the vibration through her motherly breasts, but he can’t hear the words. It’s a long time before she releases him. 

“—someone here with him, he’s always so lonely without me. And a teacher!” 

She sounds thrilled. Derek looks wildly uncomfortable, probably because he knows intimately what it is to live through that hug. 

“Yes,” Stiles says. “I am. He’s very proud.” 

“Well,” Mary says dubiously, looking at Derek. “I’m sure he’d have every reason? If you two were like that. Did I miss something? No, I’m sure I didn’t miss that.” 

“What?” Stiles feels like he’s the one who’s missed something. 

“A teacher!” Mary exclaims, delight overtaking her again. “ _Such_ a good choice.” 

“I’m doing rounds,” Derek says, snagging his keys from the hook behind Mary’s desk and vanishing out the door, throwing Stiles to the wolves, as it were. 

“A teacher!” Mary says again. “That is such a wonderful career. What made you settle on it? I wouldn’t have picked it for you.” 

“Neither would I,” Stiles says, “but working with children was part of my community service and once I figured out how to balance sugar and cough medicine I got kind of attached to the little monsters, and then college taught me not to do that under any circumstances even though it totally works, so I’m doing kind of okay now. They seem to like me.” 

“You’re such a joker,” Mary says, voice hard, “never tell that story to anyone, make something up and lie until you’re blue in the face,” and blessedly changes the subject. 

*

“It’s not like I would ever do that _now_ ,” Stiles is telling Lydia, ignoring her glazed-over eyes. “I was just a kid back then! And it’s not like I would tell anyone, only Mary! And you! Mary and you don’t count.” 

“Wait,” Lydia says, blinking herself awake. “Is this Mary Francis? Because she got old while you were gone. Old and boring and conservative. All she does is take pictures of her cats dressed up as boybanders, and explain to people why she doesn’t squash speeding tickets anymore and then ask them why they aren’t married yet.” Lydia finesses her curls in the reflection of the bar window, giving herself a smug look. “She can’t ask me that anymore. She spends extra-long being sanctimonious about speeding instead. Come on, we’re going to miss happy hour.” 

She breezes through the door, leaving Stiles behind. 

He takes a moment before following her in, because it’s been a while since he’s done this with friends and he needs to brace himself. “Okay,” he says to himself, rubbing his palms on his jeans, thinks, _okay_ and bites his lip to keep the word in. He has to get used to being around werewolves again, fuck. 

He has to learn to control himself again. He hasn’t had to do that in a long time. He hasn’t had any reason to, nothing that would have disturbed his serenity to that degree. 

Stiles curses himself and goes inside. 

Derek is the first person he sees, standing by the bar, eyes fixed on the door, on Stiles. 

Derek’s chin lifts in greeting, and Stiles has to go over and speak to him; anything less would be totally unacceptable. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, taking the space at the bar beside Derek. 

“Hey,” Derek responds, and turns to try and attract the attention of the bartender. 

“Oh, weren’t you—“ Stiles gestures towards the door. “—waiting for someone?” 

“No,” Derek says shortly. 

“Right,” Stiles says. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I should just—“ 

He starts to move towards the rest of the group, over in the corner, Lydia talking Allison’s ear off while Scott and Jackson occasionally grunt at each other, but the bartender is in front of them and Derek says, “What are you having?” 

“Uh—“ Stiles says. “That’s fine, I’ll get my own. Jack.” 

Derek just orders a coke, and then the bartender totally ignores Stiles’ proffered note. 

“Thanks, Ted,” Derek says, and Stiles throws another look at the keep, because if that’s Ted Bartholomew he was two years behind Stiles in school and _that’s_ weird. 

His mouth is open to ask, but Derek is moving away and Stiles grabs his drink and says, “I forgot you couldn’t drink, and Allison’s pregnant. Did you just come here because of me?” Derek stops further down the bar, away from the small cluster of people in front of Ted. “The group, I mean,” Stiles clarifies awkwardly, kicking himself for it. “Is this something you’d usually do?” 

“More often when Allison was still drinking,” Derek says. “But Lydia likes it.” 

Stiles looks over to where Lydia is totally ignoring her husband, laughing and flashing a gleaming smile out at Allison, attracting a couple of glances. 

“I can see that,” he says wryly, and Derek grins down at him, sudden and startling. 

Stiles feels his breath shudder, and his forehead draws down into a frown. He watches Derek’s face change, mirror his, and says abruptly, “I don’t like you lying to my dad,” not what he’d meant at all, and untrue besides. 

“You used to lie to your dad all the time,” Derek says, frown settled in, etching lines on his face that look natural now that they’re there. 

“I’m allowed,” Stiles says. “I’m his son.” 

“I’m good at my job,” Derek says after a minute. “We’re part of the community.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, unsettled by the truth of that, the difference. 

“Do you—“ 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Stiles says, and lets himself be drawn in by Lydia’s laugh. 

“—and a strawberry daiquiri,” Allison is saying when he reaches the group, and Lydia puts her hand over her mouth to hide her giggles. “Maybe a blue hawaiian as a capper. You know tequila sunrise is my favourite, but that’s more of a two in the morning, bad decisions to indulge in kind of a drink, so—“ 

“Totally appropriate for the maternity ward,” Lydia says, and Allison snorts. 

“Hey!” Scott protests, and Allison pets him consolingly. 

“Lush,” Stiles says admiringly. 

“Not so much nowadays,” she says, regretful. “But once I can persuade Lydia to babysit I’ll be back in the saddle.” 

“Lydia doesn’t like babies,” Jackson says moodily, and Lydia’s smile becomes fixed. 

“I like other people’s,” she says. “Well no, that’s a lie, but I’ll babysit for my best friend if I have to.” 

“We all will,” Derek says, right behind Stiles, making him jump. “The group will offer you any support you need.” 

Stiles can hear the stress on the word ‘group’, can hear that it’s a substitution. 

“And I appreciate that,” Allison says diplomatically, voice cooling as she looks at Derek. “But I don’t want you babysitting my child. I don’t want to make anyone do anything they don’t want to.” 

“They want to,” Derek says. Allison makes a sceptical face. “This is—“ Derek starts, then bites back whatever he was going to say, aware of their surroundings. “—important to all of us,” he finishes, and Stiles can hear the banked lecture about pack and community contained in that, so he edges away towards Scott and Jackson. 

“Out at the prison tomorrow?” Scott asks Derek while Stiles tries to think of an opening gambit. 

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Not all day, though, I’ve got to—“ He breaks off with a glance at Stiles, and Scott nods understandingly. 

The warmth of the alcohol in Stiles’ mouth is a relief. 

*

The rest of the night is just as awkward as Stiles had been dreading, so he’s pretty out of it by the time they leave the bar. 

“—gave him a ride,” Lydia is saying while Stiles lets his head tilt all the way back so he can watch the stars flicker at him. 

He hears Derek’s voice murmur, then Derek’s hands are on his back, pushing him upright while the rest of the group call out goodbyes. 

Stiles waves vaguely, but then Derek is saying, “Come on. My car’s over here.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says blankly, but Derek’s hand is a warm pressure on his arm, guiding him forwards. “Fine, whatever.” 

“You haven’t changed,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs sharply. 

“That’s—“ he says. 

“What?” Derek asks. 

“True, unfortunately,” Stiles says, body drifting closer to Derek as they walk, entirely against his wishes. “And really, really not.” 

“Yeah,” Derek says, and Stiles feels really depressed and old suddenly. 

It isn’t something he usually feels: he’s only in his late twenties, and he has a full, busy life, always plenty to do. He makes sure of it. 

Not much to do here, though, or nothing he wants to, anyway. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says sadly, looking at the car they’ve stopped in front of. “Oh, is this yours? It’s—different.” 

“Yes,” Derek says, “it is,” and Stiles squints at him suspiciously. 

“It’s nice,” he says grudgingly, and when Derek laughs, “Shut up, I know you’re making fun of me.” 

“Okay,” Derek says. “Inside.” 

He gets Stiles inside the car, one hand on his back and one on his head, and while he walks around to the other side Stiles blinks at the fuzzy darkness of the roof. 

“I should be driving,” Stiles says when Derek starts the engine. 

“You really shouldn’t.” 

“No, I mean—I always drive. Drove. I always drove you, before. Have I ever even been in your car? Your last car, I mean.” 

“I get injured less nowadays,” Derek offers. 

“Everything’s different,” Stiles says. He doesn’t mean to sound wistful. 

“Not everything,” Derek says, and, “That will happen.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, feels the gentle hum of the engine in his bones, watches Derek controlling it, one hand moving the gearshift as the other lies relaxed on the wheel, and thinks maybe that’s what he’s feeling instead, the effect of watching Derek confident and oblivious, same as it ever was. “Why—“ 

“Why what?” 

Thinks about feeling that instead, the same thing he’d felt all those years ago. 

He slumps forward, lets his head thump against the low dashboard. 

“What?” Derek asks again, and Stiles can still see his hand out of the corner of his eye, a shifting blur, and he has to close his eyes against it, because he’s just drunk enough to not to be too worried about it, to let himself consider it, to think that Derek might—

He’s drunk enough to be really stupid. 

“Nothing,” he says. “Home, Jeeves.” 

*

His dad is still up when they arrive, light on in the kitchen, but Derek walks him to the front door anyway. 

“I don’t need an escort,” Stiles says, but when he reaches into his pocket for the key he tips backwards, into Derek. 

Derek’s hands are resting on his hips, even though he’s in no danger of falling. “Obviously not,” Derek says in a low voice that rumbles through Stiles, setting him off, every nerve ending juddering, body tensed for something, anything, and Derek’s hands are still there, just _touching_ him, big and steady, and Stiles lets his head tilt back until Derek’s face comes into view, lashes obscuring his eyes as he looks down at Stiles, and then Stiles’ dad opens the door. 

“Couldn’t find your key?” he asks pointedly, and Stiles takes his hand from his pocket to hold it up. 

“Fred,” Derek says, setting Stiles back on his feet. 

“Thanks for bringing him home, Derek,” Stiles’ dad says in a disappointed voice, and Stiles pushes past him into the house. 

He heads up the stairs, leaves his dad and Derek to their discussion of him, but when he reaches his room, with its musty bed and posters on the wall a lifetime out of date, he just stands there in the darkness while the helpless anger builds, and when he hears Derek’s engine start he’s suddenly on his way back down. 

“Hey,” he spits at his dad. “I don’t appreciate your talking like I’m some kind of imposition here, like you’re saddled with some no-good kid you have to look after. Because I’m not the one who’s imposing, and I can take care of myself.” 

His dad just looks at him for a minute, disappointment clear on his face, and Stiles has his mouth open to throw something else at him when he says, “I don’t appreciate being told I’m an imposition,” and all the wind goes out of Stiles’ sails. 

“No, that wasn’t what—“ But it had been what he’d said. 

“And I don’t know where you ever got the idea I saw you as one, but I’m sorry for it.” 

“Dad, that wasn’t—I didn’t mean that.” 

“No? Because you’ve done a fine job of acting like you do.” 

“Oh, it isn’t—“ Stiles scrubs a hand over his forehead. “I’m too drunk to have this conversation.” 

“And that’s another thing. If you were out with Derek how come he was stone-cold sober and you’re a mess.” 

“I’m not a mess,” Stiles says automatically, cursing werewolf metabolism. “And Derek doesn’t drink.” 

“I’ve seen Derek drink,” his dad says, and now Stiles is cursing Derek. “Is this something I need to be concerned about?” 

“No,” Stiles says, aware he sounds like a sulky kid and feeling like one too. “God, dad. Anyway, it wasn’t—I don’t want you thinking that, okay, because it isn’t true, I don’t think you’re an imposition, I don’t—“ 

“You’ve made it clear you don’t want to be here,” his dad says. “You’ve made it clear every time I’ve seen you since you left, and if you think I don’t care that the times I’ve seen you have been few and far between you would be wrong.” 

“That had nothing to do with you,” Stiles says, hand so tight on the newel the trim is biting into his skin. “I just had to get out of here, I had to get away, but I never wanted to get away from you.” 

“And you expected I would be able to tell the difference?” 

“I didn’t mean to make you think—“ 

“You didn’t seem to care much either way.” 

“I don’t want to be here now,” Stiles rushes out, “but I don’t—I want you to be okay, I need to make sure you’re okay, I want to do that.” 

“You used to,” his dad says. “You always used to.” 

“I still do,” Stiles says, “I always did.” And that’s mostly true, though the distance had worried away at their relationship until it frayed, until it began to sour the way Stiles had felt all the other relationships in his life turning, and he had known he was pulling away from his father with the rest of his life, but he had been too angry and hurt to fix it, to even try. 

“I want to be here for you,” he says. “I just don’t want to be here.” 

“Why?” his dad asks, and Stiles shivers out a breath, because nobody ever has. 

“No reason,” he says. “Just me being stupid. Come on, let’s get you upstairs.” 

“Get _you_ upstairs,” his dad says, but he clutches the banister all the way up, and Stiles’ hand hovers behind his back, just in case. 

*

“Hungover?” his dad asks the next morning, as Stiles slings bacon on the grill. 

“No,” Stiles says, “used to it,” then rethinks that answer and says, “Nah, don’t really get hangovers,” which is the same thing but less douchebaggy. 

“This is something I’m becoming concerned about,” his dad says. 

“No reason to,” Stiles says, starting the coffee. “I just go out a lot.” 

“You don’t drink alone.” 

“ _No_ , dad,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. 

“Do you have a lot of friends?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “more than I ever had here.” 

Which is true, as far as it goes. 

Stiles has a very entertaining life, and he’s always entertained when he drinks, so much more easily; and maybe that is why he does it so much: to break the tedium. 

His dad grunts. “I’m glad.” 

Stiles feels an unexpected pang at that, at the idea that he’d never really put in the effort required to convince his dad that he was okay, that he was happy, and he throws an extra strip of bacon on for his dad as recompense. 

*

“How does my dad ever prosecute anybody?” Stiles asks, drowning in disorganised files and irregularly stapled documents when Derek brings him coffee midmorning. 

“He has a ranking system,” Derek explains. “He does the paperwork he thinks there’s any chance he’ll need to use, which is not a lot.” 

“I wondered why this was all such bullshit,” Stiles says, then casts a covert look at Derek’s uniform, his wry look. “Not that, ah—Jonathan Marks’ attempt to ride the Fullers’ dog home from the prom wasn’t the crime of the century.” 

“Decade,” Derek says. “To qualify for century Snickerdoodle would have had to take the large dog crown last year, not just place.” 

The dog’s name was Augustus, and Stiles’ mouth curves in pleasure before he can stop it. Derek echoes the smile back to him easily, and Stiles remembers being angry with him last night, angry that he’d learnt how to be happy again while Stiles was away, but now he’s looking at Derek’s smile and thinking of the way he’d felt later, on the porch, when he was closer to Derek than he’d been in years; mostly he’s wishing he’d had more to drink so his memory wasn’t quite so crystal-clear, because all he can think about is the courteous, comforting press of Derek’s thumbs into his hips, the shaky sweep of Derek’s breath over his face when he’d tilted his head back to look at him. 

He wishes he’d had less to drink so he could’ve appreciated it more when it was happening. 

His eyes are fixed blindly on the papers in his hand, because he can’t look at Derek with his cheeks burning like this. 

“Making much progress?” Derek asks. 

“Not really,” Stiles says. “But it doesn’t matter. Dad doesn’t need this done now; he just doesn’t want to have to do it himself.” 

“Need any help?” 

“No,” Stiles says, squinting suspiciously up at Derek. “Why are you offering?” 

“No reason,” Derek says virtuously, then caves immediately. “I want you to teach me his system.” 

“His system?” 

“His ranking system. He won’t tell me how to do it, says he isn’t going to encourage me on my path to becoming an undisciplined layabout, but I want that system.” 

“I don’t have it,” Stiles says, amused. 

“He’d tell you, though,” Derek says. “And wouldn’t you like some help with this?” 

“I’ll consider it,” Stiles says loftily, relieved to be regaining his equilibrium. “I’m going to need some more coffee as incentive. A lot more coffee. And also those orange-cranberry muffins when they have them and apple-cinnamon when they don’t.” 

He isn’t expecting Derek to say, “I’ll see what I can do, Chief,” before vanishing back out into the hallway with a grin, and Stiles is left alone in the middle of the snowdrift, frozen and resentful, because he knows Derek _won’t_. 

*

He hasn’t had to give his dad a spongebath so far; in fact, he’s had to do less for his dad than he’d expected, and he’s getting worried he’s taking on more than he’s ready for at this stage in his recovery, so when he comes down one morning to his dad already at the kitchen table with a congealing fried egg pushed off to the side, mumbling curses at the laptop he’s tapping away at, he says, “When’s your next appointment?” 

“Huh?” his dad asks, attention on the screen. “I do not know what Derek thinks he is doing giving Lampard authority over that, Lampard is a thrice-forsaken _moron_ —“ The tapping gets more aggressive as he trails off into expletives, though Stiles can’t tell who they’re directed at. 

“Your next check-up?” Stiles presses. “When is it? I’ll drive you in.” 

“Yeah,” his dad says, eyes on the laptop but fingers still. “You’ll have to.” 

“You’re doing better than they expected, I think,” Stiles offers. “Definitely better than Nurse Helen seemed to expect.” 

His dad starts typing again, and this time the muttered imprecations are towards Helen. “Week and a half,” he volunteers once his spleen is vented sufficiently. “Helen’s going to come by and check on me before, though.” 

Stiles’ eyebrows fly up. “Really.” 

His dad glares, but refuses to acknowledge the implication. “Derek’s coming by before heading out.” He looks askance at Stiles, boxers and washed-thin tshirt apparently not meeting the dress code. “You want to run get changed before he arrives?” 

“No,” Stiles says defiantly. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.” His dad snorts. “He hasn’t come over much. I thought he was supposed to be keeping you in the loop all the time or whatever.” 

“He is. He has a lot to take care of out at the prison. The marshals are giving us hell over this—“ 

There’s a knock on the door and Stiles’ dad starts to stand, but Stiles waves him back down, already on his way to the door. 

“Hey, Derek,” he says, leaving the door wide as he goes back to the kitchen. 

“Fred,” Derek says when he joins them. 

“Can you not call him Sheriff?” Stiles asks. “That would be less weird.” 

“Stiles,” his dad reprimands, but Stiles is busy digging through the fridge for more eggs. 

“You were saying about the marshals?” 

“Yeah.” 

Stiles carefully cracks the first egg into the bowl and lifts his head to look at his dad. His attention would usually be on the food Stiles is preparing, but then a fried egg would never normally be left begging for love on his plate. Derek’s attention is on the food, watching the shell in Stiles’ hands. “ _What_ were you saying about the marshals?” Stiles prompts. “They’re blaming you for the escape?” 

“Yeah,” his dad says. 

“No,” Derek says. 

“Derek.” 

“They’re blaming me.” 

Stiles cracks another egg while he thinks about Derek filling the sort of position that would mean he’d be in line for that kind of blame. He cracks two more in quick succession and watches Derek’s eyes track the movement of his hands. 

“They’re blaming Derek,” his dad admits. 

“You took care of it, though, right?” Stiles asks, ignoring the part of him that’s shying away from knowing anything about that one time a couple of weeks ago his father almost died. “They’re dead, you killed them.” 

“Derek,” his dad says again, and Stiles realises that’s his father’s attempt at an explanation. “But we can’t talk about it with you, you know that. You shouldn’t even be asking,” he says, while Stiles tries not to watch Derek’s face, eyes oddly intent on his own hands on the table. “Though you always did, don’t know why I expected that to be any different.” 

“No,” Stiles says, surprised at the sudden shock of pleasure he feels when Derek’s eyes lift to meet his. They’re bluer than he remembers, and the feeling doesn’t dissipate immediately, and he isn’t sure what he means when he says, “I don’t know why either.” 

Derek doesn’t drop his gaze, so Stiles offers, “Scrambled eggs?” as an out. “I know you’re hungry.” 

He’s been watching the food like a hawk. 

“Sure,” Derek says. “I had breakfast already, but I could eat.” 

He finishes the food, but Stiles has to make him. 

*

It hadn’t been a new thing when Stiles decided to talk to Derek about it. 

It had been an old thing even at that point, though not as old a thing as it would become, and Stiles knew better, he did, or he should have, with all the snarling and snapping and shoving at him Derek did, but that hadn’t been it, that hadn’t been all there was, and he built on everything, every time he thought he saw a softening, every time he thought he saw Derek looking _back_. 

So the day before he was due to move halfway across the country he sought Derek out, because he had do it, didn’t ever want to regret this, not when there was a possibility, and if it turned out there _wasn’t_ , well, he wasn’t coming home until Christmas, so he wouldn’t have to deal with it for months. 

Derek was on the phone when he showed up, biting out terse apologies to somebody, which was weird, because Stiles wasn’t sure he’d seen Derek offer an apology before, even an obviously insincere one, and when Derek ended the conversation and turned to him his face was set in a snarl. 

“Why would you do that?” he grit out, furious, and Stiles watched warily for signs of impending change, but Derek seemed to be totally in control. 

Also, there were a lot of things Stiles potentially might have done, but when Stiles started to question which of them Derek was objecting to, Derek said, “You have no _right_ to interfere in our business with the Argents.” 

“I—“ Stiles said, “—didn’t? Not really, I just—“ 

“I’m not actually sure what you did,” Derek said evenly. “But whatever it was fucked up the last two months of concessions and endless, useless negotiations, and I don’t actually blame you for that, because I understand how easy it would be to do, I do understand how batshit crazy Argent actually is, but what I do not understand is why you were talking to her to begin with.” 

“I didn’t mean to.” 

“You had no _right_ ,” Derek snarled at him, and it was somehow worse coming from a human face. “You have no place here, and you had no right to interfere in pack business.” 

“I—“ 

“Overstepped,” Derek said. “This has _nothing_ to do with you. You aren’t pack, and you have no right pretending.” 

“I’m—I know I’m not pack,” Stiles said, heart beating frantically. “But—“ 

“No,” Derek said. “There is no ‘but’. I don’t know why you even hang around all the time when you’re not part of us, I don’t understand why you insist on doing that—“ He cut himself off abruptly, but his face when he looked at Stiles was just as disgusted. 

“Scott—“ he said, like it was a talisman, a passkey, but Derek was shaking his head. 

“Scott knows you aren’t one of us.” His shoulders slumped, and his face was strained and determined. “You should just go,” he said slowly. “You don’t belong with us, everyone knows it, and you should stop acting like you do. Leave, and try not to screw anything else up for me on your way out.” 

Stiles left the Hale place then, stumbling a little on his way out, because he had pictured it going badly, he had, but not quite _that_ badly. 

He missed Christmas that year. 

*

Stiles doesn’t see Derek for two days after that, and the couple of times he asks whoever’s manning the front desk at the office about it, he just gets a terse, “Prison,” and a harassed look. 

Late in the afternoon on the third day, Derek shows up in Petra’s office. He brings a muffin. Blueberry. 

“It’s all they had,” he says pre-emptively. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says anyway, and then Derek watches him eat it, which is a little weird. 

“Didn’t get one for yourself?” he asks, catching falling crumbs in his palm and licking them off, and it takes Derek a minute to respond. 

“Huh?” he says distantly. “I wasn’t hungry. I don’t know why you always think I’m hungry.” 

“Because you _are_ ,” Stiles scoffs. “Obviously. And you don’t even need to be hungry to eat a muffin, that’s like saying ice-cream is food.” 

Derek opens his mouth to argue the point, so Stiles jumps in with, “ _Wrong_!” and triumphantly stuffs the last of the muffin into his mouth. 

Derek watches him chew and swallow, watches Stiles’ tongue when it darts out to gather up the last of the crumbs lingering around his mouth. 

“Oh,” Stiles says blankly, and Derek lifts dark eyes from his mouth to meet his gaze. “Oh.” 

Shit. 

“What—“ he squeaks, as Derek’s face shutters. 

“I have to—“ Derek says, backing towards the door. “—get to a meeting.” 

Stiles leans forwards, thinking about saying something, stopping him, but he didn’t see what he thought, thought he’d seen before, when Derek hadn’t felt a thing for him if you didn’t count resentment of his presence, and Stiles drops his reaching hand and watches Derek’s back vanish through the door. 

And if it is true, he thinks, feeling the unwelcome anger build in his gut, a constant presence lately, if it is true, Stiles isn’t going to leave this time. 

*

Stiles is still angry when he goes out to ask Mary if Susie Zafist had really married a man who _also_ had the surname of Zafist, and if so, how the _hell_ the Zafists had kept their freakiness under the radar for so long, so he isn’t really paying attention to anything when he bumps into someone in the corridor. 

“Sorry,” he says, blinking at the stranger in surprise. 

“No harm done,” the man says. 

They don’t usually let strangers wander around the building unescorted. “Do you need any help, Mister—“ 

“Marshal Mitchell,” the man says, and Stiles has to choke down his snicker. He thinks he does a pretty good job, but maybe Marshal Mitchell is used to the reaction, because he’s glaring at Stiles’ lips, and they’re barely even twitching. “I was told Hale would be here.” 

“No, he isn’t,” Stiles says, and the marshal pushes past him, pushes the door open and sticks his head in to check. 

“Hey! You’re not allowed in there,” Stiles says. And Mitchell probably is, but now Stiles doesn’t want him in there. He grabs the handle from Mitchell’s hand and slams the door shut, almost hitting Mitchell’s nose. 

Mitchell glares at him, apparently blaming Stiles for his nose, his name, and Derek’s absence. 

“Where’s Hale,” Mitchell raps out, eyes darting around, like he’s expecting to catch Derek scurrying past, trying to escape Mitchell’s notice through strategic placement of a file over his face or something. Stiles wouldn’t blame him. 

“Probably in his office,” Stiles offers. “I’ll show you where—“ 

“I know my way around,” Mitchell says, taking off in the direction of Derek’s office. 

“I’ll still show you,” Stiles says, chasing after him and then outpacing him, just making it to Derek’s door first and throwing it open triumphantly. 

“Derek!” he says, basking in Mitchell’s outraged scowl. 

Derek has a pencil stuck behind his ear, and a pen is hanging out of his mouth, cap between his white teeth. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and his hair is messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. He looks tired and stressed, and his voice is strained when he says, “Stiles. Marshal Mitchell.” 

Mitchell bristles, although the greeting was perfectly respectful. 

“I need to speak to you about your movements on the night of—“ 

“Where’s Peterson?” Derek asks. 

“Marshal Peterson is busy elsewhere,” Mitchell says defensively, and opens his mouth to start in again when Derek mutters, “Great,” and heaves himself out of his chair, coming slowly towards the door. 

“I’ve answered your questions already, and I don’t intend to go through this with you again, unless you’re here in an official capacity this time? No?” Mitchell’s face is pale and anxious and seething. “I’m not willing to speak to you until you are.” Derek leans in close to Stiles, reaching around his body to grab the door. “And I don’t see that happening.” 

Derek swings the door shut; Stiles has to lean out of the way, into Derek’s body, and he can smell Derek’s aftershave on his shirt, nose brushing the open neck. Derek places a steadying hand on Stiles’ back, and the last thing Stiles sees before the door closes is the thwarted fury in Mitchell’s face. 

Derek scowls at the expanse of wood for a second, palm warm and comfortable on the small of Stiles’ back, and then he meets Stiles’ skittish eyes and pulls his hand away as if it’s been burned, face darkening. 

“You should go,” he says, and Stiles nods mechanically, knowing that’s true. 

He fumbles the door open, and glances warily around, but Mitchell is already gone, so he feels safe slipping out. 

“See you—“ he starts, but when he turns back around, Derek’s door is already closed. 

*

The next time Stiles sees Derek is almost a week later, and Stiles knows Derek is busy, but Stiles has seen people gaping after him as his uniform vanishes around a corner as Stiles enters the room, so Stiles knows Derek is avoiding him. 

Stiles won’t say he doesn’t feel a vindictive satisfaction at that; he doesn’t even feel guilty about it. 

Stiles gets back early from Jackson and Lydia’s on a Saturday afternoon, and when he gets inside Derek and his father are in the sitting room with Helen. 

“—too much on your plate as it is,” Helen is saying, extending his father’s arm and squinting at something in a measuring fashion, though what she could be squinting at Stiles has no idea. 

“I’m fine, Fred,” Derek says quietly. “I don’t need you to do this.” 

“I’m not saying you do,” his dad says, irritated. “Just that you do, and it’s nothing against you.” 

“No,” Derek says, and when his father looks like arguing more, he says, “Stiles.” 

“What does Stiles have to do with anything, unless it’s to do with how you haven’t been over here—oh, Stiles!” 

“Hey,” Stiles says, and he feels awkward as he comes into the room, but he doesn’t let it show. 

“Good to see you again,” Helen says briskly. 

“You too. How’s he doing?” 

Helen folds her arms, unwilling to give too much away. “Could be better,” she says. “But I’m pleased enough.” 

“Good,” Stiles says, a relieved breath shaking out of him, though he manages to hide it from the humans in the room. “That’s good.” 

“It’s acceptable,” she says firmly. “I expect much better progress the next time I’m here.” 

His dad’s head comes up to watch as she grabs her things, but he doesn’t say anything, so Stiles says, “Oh, don’t go. I was just about to start dinner.” 

“I couldn’t impose,” she demurs. 

“We have so much stuff for meatloaf, you’d really be doing me a favour,” Stiles says. “My dad doesn’t—“ He stops the thought before it comes out, but his dad’s face goes sour anyway. “My dad’s still used to the way I ate when I was a teenager, I think,” Stiles says. “He still buys so much, and we can never get through it all.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t want to break up the party,” she says, looking to Derek for confirmation, but Derek says, “I’m busy right now, but I—“ 

“But he’ll always make an exception for Stiles’ meatloaf,” Stiles’ dad says, although actually, he doesn’t much like meatloaf at all. Neither does Stiles; he has no idea why he said meatloaf, but it seemed like something guests might want to stay for. Stiles doesn’t really cook for guests much. Mostly he orders takeout. He’s cooked more since he got home than he has in the past year. 

“I will,” Derek says, and now Stiles has to figure out how to make a meatloaf that is both big enough to feed an army and tastes like it deserves having an exception made for it. Great. 

Stiles isn’t quite sure how he and Derek end up alone in the kitchen together, because Derek looks uncomfortable as all get-out, and Stiles thinks it would be better for everyone if he could manage to pretend Derek didn’t exist. It probably has something to do with how his father was glaring at Derek when Stiles left the room and has somehow since managed to gently corner Helen out by the yucca. 

“That’s new, right?” Stiles asks, gesturing in their direction with his eyes; there’s a wall between them, but he can hear their conversation so he can’t be more forthcoming. 

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Far as I know.” 

“You’d know.” 

“Maybe.” 

They leave it at that for a while, but eventually the lack of conversation makes Stiles’ shoulders twitch, and he says, “So,” but then the only follow-up he can come up with is, “How’ve you been.” 

He doesn’t want to know. 

“Fine,” Derek says. “Nothing much.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and then, though Derek hasn’t asked and won’t care, “Same here.” 

“Really?” Derek asks, sounding a little surprised. “Thought you’d be living the dream, out there on your own.” 

“Well, obviously,” Stiles says, and shushes Derek for a minute so he can concentrate on the cookbook open on the counter in front of him. 

“I haven’t had meatloaf in years,” Derek says, wistfulness strong in his voice. 

“Really,” Stiles says, “Would’ve thought you’d have people lining up around the block to make you a nice home-cooked meal.” 

It comes out snide, which is stupid, because he never had confessed anything to Derek, and although Derek should have known, same way he’d know if Helen had been around Stiles’ dad, Derek had never paid that much attention to Stiles. Stiles would bet real money he still has no idea; there’s no reason to give him one. 

“Next door,” his dad calls in from the sitting room. 

“No,” Derek says. 

“Jessica Torrance?” Stiles asks. 

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head, but, “Yeah,” his dad yells in. 

“Busted!” Stiles says, faking cheerfulness rather well, if he does say so himself, but then Derek’s hand is sliding over Stiles’ where it’s resting on the recipe, and Stiles is just trying not to shake. 

“No,” Derek says, mouth against Stiles’ ear, body against his back, and Stiles _is_ shaking. “What about you?” 

“ _That’s_ what you ask, that’s what you want to know?” Stiles asks, disbelieving. 

“Yes,” Derek says quietly, hand tightening on Stiles’, and, “Yes,” Stiles spits out, “ _loads_ ,” because it’s _true_. 

He steps forwards to look at the cookery book through blurry eyes, brushing Derek away from him, and Derek lets him go. 

*

The meatloaf turns out pretty well, and Stiles doubled all the quantities, so there’s even a little left on the plate. 

His dad and Helen appear to have heard that little discussion with Derek, because they’re both stilted in a way they weren’t beforehand. 

“So, Helen,” Stiles ventures at one point, “do you specialise in thoracic surgeries?” 

“I’m an ICU nurse,” she says, over-bright, and _that_ line of conversation dies a death. 

Stiles can’t even blame his dad for the glare sent his way. 

After dinner, Stiles’ dad walks Helen out to her car, keeping Stiles and Derek in their seats with a look that should have left them both with frostbite. 

Stiles starts clearing the table. 

Derek tries to help, but Stiles says, “Don’t,” and he stops, stands there awkwardly, hands hanging at his sides. 

“Your mother’s was the last meatloaf I ate, I think,” Derek says, and Stiles almost drops the pile of dishes, puts them down carefully on the draining board. “She brought it down to the office after the house burned down. Hers was good too.” 

So Stiles is already raw when he turns on Derek. 

“You don’t get to come into my house and do that,” Stiles says, shaking again, but at least it’s anger this time. “You don’t get to do that to me.” 

“I understand why you’re mad at me—“ Derek says, like he _does_ , like there’s any way he _could_. 

“So what, you want me to be part of the pack now?” Stiles asks. “You’ve had a look around and decided there are no better prospects? Is this a Marx Brothers thing? Nobody you’d want to turn would want to be turned, so you’re thinking, _hey, Stilinski isn’t as much of a loser as I remembered, might as well throw him a bone_?” 

“No—“ Derek starts, moving towards Stiles, hands coming up, but Stiles backs away, and Derek stops dead, looking at him helplessly. 

“Seriously, what is this?” 

But Stiles knows, because Derek would have _known_ , even if he never had cared to pay Stiles very much attention there’s no way he would’ve missed that, no way he could’ve, he’d _always_ known, and Stiles feels sick with the realisation. 

“You think if you—snap your fingers I’ll come running?” Stiles sneers. “Like I used to, like I—no. Not a chance in hell. I have better things than you to spend my time on.” 

“Stiles, that isn’t what—“ Derek starts, taking a step forward, hand reaching out again. 

Stiles has nowhere to go, and he can’t let Derek touch him, so he says, “The second my dad’s well enough I’m out of here. I’m never coming back,” and Derek drops his hand and turns and leaves through the back door. 

*

“So,” his dad says, when he gets back in and finds Stiles clutching a cushion in front of a reality show set in a gym. 

Stiles hasn’t had reason to go on a self-pity binge since the last time Derek made him feel like this, but this is _great_ accompaniment, because Stiles also feels tragic about his exercise routine, given the buff state of most of the guys he ends up bringing home. If he had a vodka, and he wants one, he would be crying crocodile tears into it right now, and it has been _years_ since he’s felt like this, and he hates Derek like burning for it, and also just on general principle. 

“You and the Hale kid?” 

“He isn’t a kid,” Stiles says sulkily. “He’s thirty- _two_ , dad.” 

“You’ll both always be kids to me,” his dad says, and when he sits down it’s less ginger than Stiles has seen yet. 

Stiles feels some of the tension leave his body despite himself. 

“Did you two—ah, did he ever—?” 

“No, Dad, Derek never _statutorily-raped_ me,” Stiles says petulantly, pretending he isn’t proving his dad’s point about eternal children with every word coming out of his mouth. 

“Well, that’s a relief,” his dad says, gets up, pats Stiles on the shoulder, and leaves him to it. 

*

And everything would have been fine, because it may have been a while since Stiles has felt like _decking_ somebody—not since that time in college when he stopped taking his meds like a total loser, just to prove he could, and ended up dickpunching that smarmy TA and doing about a zillion hours of community service for it, but that got him back on track and into teaching, so it all worked out—but it isn’t like he’s actually going to do that to Derek. 

For one thing he doubts Derek would collapse as satisfyingly as that TA had. 

Except Scott comes over the next afternoon, while Stiles is mainlining _Lifetime_ , because god knows he needs somebody’s mother to tell him what a fucking terrible idea it is to sleep with danger, and catches Stiles by surprise while he’s feeling weak, and that’s how Stiles ends up going over to Scott and Allison’s for a dinner at which Derek will also be present. 

“I have had enough of dinner with Derek to last me a lifetime,” he says, on his way over in Scott’s car, because Scott still knows him too well. 

“What is up with you two?” Scott asks. 

“He’s a dick who hates me,” Stiles says. “Some things never change.” 

“You—I don’t think Derek ever hated you,” Scott says, and he actually sounds surprised that Stiles would have thought so. 

“He’s never given me cause to believe otherwise,” Stiles says, staring out the window to avoid Scott’s concerned gaze. 

Possibly wanting to fuck him doesn’t count, and even that isn’t a sure thing; he probably thinks if he does Stiles he’ll just roll right over and offer his throat up, and _fuck_ that. 

“He—was looking forward to seeing you,” Scott says uncertainly. “We all were, but—“ 

“Right,” Stiles says. 

“No, I mean—he likes you, dude. Even back then, he was more of an asshole I guess, but he was the only person who wasn’t surprised when you got yourself straightened out and—no offence.” 

“None taken,” Stiles says, even though that’s a little bit of a lie. 

“But a teacher, man, who would’ve thunk it?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, grinning. “Karma, probably.” 

“Why didn’t you come back?” 

“Why would I have come back?” Stiles says, and he feels bad about it, about the hurt look Scott flashes him, but it’s still true. 

“We missed you when you left,” Scott says, a little aggressively. “We all did. You were pack, and you just left.” 

“I wasn’t pack,” Stiles says, and he’s smiling, but it isn’t pleasant. 

“You were,” Scott says, and he sounds sure, but Stiles knows better. 

“Thanks, but Derek didn’t think so and he outvotes you.” 

“Derek did,” Scott says. 

“Derek told me he didn’t,” Stiles says. 

Scott sounds bewildered when he says, “That’s—Allison’s pack. There’s no reason you wouldn’t be. You were.” 

“If I wasn’t then I’m certainly not now.” 

“You—you could come back,” Scott says urgently. “You could still—“ 

“No,” Stiles says, definite enough that Scott shuts up, and the ensuing silence is awkward enough that Stiles is thankful they’re close to home, because at least it’s brief. 

*

Scott’s house is nicer than Stiles had been expecting. It’s off the beaten track a little, probably couldn’t afford anything closer to town, but it’s a sprawling three-story from the seventies, and they’ve built onto the back. 

“Allison wanted a bigger kitchen,” Scott explains. “I don’t know why, because she never uses it. Don’t tell her I said that.” 

When they get inside, going through the screen door around the back where the cars are stowed, Allison and Derek are standing in the beige expanse of kitchen-cum-living-room, and Allison is on the phone, ordering enough Italian to feed a platoon. 

“It’ll be ready in twenty,” she tells Scott when she hangs up. “My dad’s coming over.” 

“It’ll be good to see him,” Stiles lies, so he can soften her up for, “I was sorry about your mom.” 

Stiles had been barrelling through his last few weeks at college when Allison’s mom had died, together enough that he actually made the effort to get in touch with Allison when he heard; he had called and left messages that weren’t returned, and eventually he had given up and sent a sympathy email that he received no response to, and now he watches pain twitch across her face before it shuts down. 

“Thanks,” she says. “Do you mind if I go with Scott to pick up the food?” 

“Uh,” Stiles says, because he does, but he doesn’t need to be told he fucked up mentioning her mom somehow, so he doesn’t really have a choice, says, “Yeah, get out of here, we’ll set the table,” and watches them walk out the door. 

“Wait,” Stiles says belatedly. “They’re going to be back before her dad gets here, right?” 

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “Chris is fine.” 

“Whatever you say, _crazy_ ,” Stiles says. “I’ll just—“ 

He goes over to the kitchen and starts pulling out drawers. Cooking mitts and placemats, papers, assorted junk, saucepan lids. No cutlery. He swings around into Derek when he moves to try somewhere else. 

“Here,” Derek says, reaching past Stiles to pull out a corner drawer filled with messily mixed silver. “Placemats?” 

“Oh,” Stiles says, as Derek leans in to dig through the drawer for whatever it is he’s looking for, and Stiles breathes him in, a scent he’s never quite been able to identify, never found anywhere else, and he shivers in the heat Derek radiates, the heat that’s transferred to him as Derek brushes against him. “What?” 

Derek stills against him, too warm and too close, and Stiles is struggling for breath, mouth open to taste Derek’s scent, and he lifts heavy eyes from Derek’s shoulders to his face just as Derek lets the cutlery fall back into the drawer with a clatter and steps back. 

“Placemats?” Stiles says after a moment, watching Derek’s empty hands flex as he looks at Stiles. “They use the placemats?” 

Derek nods, eyes fixed on Stiles, and says, “Why would you leave?” 

“Why would I stay?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t go back to the drawer, but he sinks back against the counter, and Derek watches the movement. 

His fingers fumble for the metal of a drawer-handle and tighten around it, needing an outlet for the jumpy, irritated arousal he can’t contain. 

Derek’s head drops but his dark eyes stay intently on Stiles, and his mouth drops open seconds before he says, “Because I want you to,” and Stiles has to pretend he isn’t ablaze. The handle is cutting into his fingers. 

“That’s a lie,” he says, missing breezy by a mile, and, “I have a life. It isn’t here.” 

“I know,” Derek says, but he doesn’t move or look away. 

Stiles wants to do something, but he can’t, can’t move and open the drawer to break the tension because if he does he’ll have to move right into Derek’s body and he can’t do that, doesn’t trust what would happen if he did. 

And he hates that it might be that easy, that Derek might just have to say _I want you_ and that’s all it would take, that’s _all_. He hates himself for that. 

It’s a lie, anyway. 

Stiles isn’t sure if he cares. 

Derek wets his lips, and his voice is uncertain when he says, “But I want you to,” and that’s what does it, and Stiles leans forwards, clenched fingers dragging the drawer out slowly with the movement of his body, and when he’s close enough and getting closer he lifts his face to Derek, and that’s when Chris Argent walks in. 

*

Dinner is incredibly awkward. 

Stiles eats, knuckles white on his fork, and he thinks he manages to keep up a brittle pretence of normality, while Derek sits too close, totally too close even if Chris put the placemats out. And Derek keeps _looking_ at him, and that totally shouldn’t be allowed, because it’s distracting and unfair, and Stiles can’t settle back into himself, into the sureties he’d been clinging to, because every time he lets himself look back he’s trapped by Derek’s glittering eyes. He wants to fidget out of his skin, but he doesn’t. 

Derek and Chris seem to get along, which is weird, because when Stiles left it was trouble, trouble, trouble, a constant waltz along the edge, onlookers waiting for a false step to send the dancers stumbling over into war. Stiles had half-expected someone to shove. 

And now here Chris is, sitting at a dinner table with his heavily pregnant daughter, her werewolf husband, and their alpha. He’s looking at an ultrasound printout, and his face is soft. 

Stiles had asked what had happened when he’d come back for the wedding, but he hadn’t really gotten an answer. At the time he’d been shocked there was a wedding at all; he’d never been able to imagine Scott and Allison breaking up, but he’d never really imagined that things would settle down enough that they could get _married_ , either. Now he wishes he’d tried harder to get an answer. 

“Did you get the DVD?” Chris asks, and it’s also weird thinking of him as _Chris_ , though not as weird as Derek calling his dad _Fred_. 

Allison answers, and Stiles tries to look at her instead of letting Derek’s determined focus waylay him, but when he looks their way, Scott is staring at him. He glances at Derek, then back at Stiles, eyes sharpening, and Stiles can see the moment the penny drops. 

Now is the time Scott chooses to pay attention to what’s going on with Stiles, _obviously_. 

“Scott?” Allison is saying, but Scott is looking frantically between Derek and Stiles, says, “You—“ and lands wide, disbelieving eyes on Stiles. 

Allison and Chris are looking at them now too, puzzled, but Allison doesn’t stay that way long, not when she can see that look on Derek’s face, the way he’s still refusing to look away from Stiles. 

“Oh,” she says, and starts to say something else, but then she sees Stiles. 

Stiles has learnt a lot of things he never thought he’d know, and one of them is that if you refuse to acknowledge something is happening, sometimes you can make it so it’s like it never did. 

Allison’s face falls back into its smooth lines of placid incomprehension. 

“Are you ready to watch the DVD?” she asks, probably not for the first time. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, rising, and refuses to notice when Derek rises with him, puts a hand on the back of Stiles’ chair. 

Allison leads the way to the television, and the group shuffles after her. Derek sticks near, and Scott looks briefly conflicted, then grins, elbows Stiles and says, “I already made you a copy,” so at least Stiles has a distraction. 

But then Derek sits on the arm of the couch beside Stiles, thigh resting against his arm, and _nothing_ is that distracting. 

“There’s a still that you can use as a screensaver,” Scott says pointedly. “I paid extra.” Derek’s thigh shifts very slightly, brushing against Stiles, and that’s how Stiles accidentally agrees to setting an ultrasound image as both his screensaver and desktop background. 

Stiles twitches throughout the short, boring DVD, while Scott aahs and coos and generally makes an idiot of himself. Allison spends most of the time smiling at Scott’s reactions, and Chris watches the screen like he’s going to have to take a test on this later, and Stiles notices all this because he’s desperately trying not to notice anything about Derek, not the way his arm is resting along the back of the couch, sending his body curving towards Stiles, and definitely not the way he keeps getting closer, or the way it maybe just feels like he is. 

Stiles knows Derek can detect every response, and he supposes he should be grateful Scott is too caught up in fantasies about his future child, but he doesn’t actually care. 

When he can’t help it, when Allison is telling them all something about growth rates and how that’s expected to affect dates, he looks up at Derek and can’t look away. 

And then Allison switches off the television and Scott says, “You’re totally going to watch that again before bed, right?” like that’s a thing people do with ultrasounds of babies that aren’t theirs, and then Derek pushes himself to his feet with a hand on Stiles’ thigh and says, “You need a ride home, right?” 

And when Stiles says yes it doesn’t feel like a decision. 

Scott looks mildly dubious but just forces the DVD on Stiles and waves them off amiably; Allison keeps smiling. 

Chris is still on the couch, already rewatching like a weirdo, or a future-grandpa, Stiles supposes. He wouldn’t know. 

He feels a moment of hesitation before he gets into Derek’s car, but it’s ridiculous, totally ridiculous, and then he busies himself with his seatbelt while Derek starts the engine, and then he has to look up at Derek, staring out at the road that’s speeding by. Derek’s mouth is tense, jaw firm, and Stiles would say there’s no reason for that but he doesn’t want to lie to himself about this. Derek looks over when Stiles doesn’t look away, and the car swerves. There’s an irritated tic in Derek’s jaw, and he returns his attention to driving, hands clenched on the wheel, foot sinking down on the accelerator. 

Stiles keeps watching, because he can now, it’s okay, because he thinks—he thinks he might be able to do this; he might actually be okay. 

It takes too long to get home. 

“I’ll walk you in,” Derek says briefly, on his way out of the car, and Stiles barely manages to open his door before Derek gets there. Derek looks annoyed, but he keeps his feelings to himself, puts a hand on Stiles’ back and walks him to the porch, and Stiles is still deciding. 

The lights are all out, even the one on the porch; Stiles’ dad must have gone to bed early. It’s a relief, to be able to think about this without worrying about anything else, without worrying that his dad is going to come out in the middle of everything and ask what’s taking him so long. Stiles takes the opportunity to turn and look at Derek, even though he feels like that’s all he’s been doing lately. 

He doesn’t _want_ to do it; he doesn’t want it to be all he’s doing; he wants more. 

“That was strange,” Stiles says, and kicks himself for chickening out. 

“What was strange?” Derek asks. 

“Argent. The evening. Everything.” 

“Oh,” Derek says. “I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says. He licks his lips, but his mouth is so dry it hardly makes a difference. “What do you want to talk about?” 

It’s too dark to really make out Derek’s features, but he can guess, he _does_ , and his breath catches when Derek comes closer. Derek’s hair is blowing in the light breeze, and Stiles tries to watch that, tries not to imagine anything. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Derek says. “I just want you to understand.” 

“Now who sounds like a kid,” Stiles says, trying for lightness, but Derek shakes his head, abruptly closer, and Stiles can feel Derek’s breath on his face when he speaks again. 

“I don’t want you to go. I want things I—I want you.” 

Derek’s face is too close to be anything but shadow, and still Stiles stares at it like seeing it will unlock all of Derek’s secrets, like it will unlock all of _Stiles’_ ; he stares at Derek, hidden and obscured, and listens to the wind-chimes ring so he can hear something other than his own pounding heart. 

And maybe Stiles can believe those words and maybe he can’t; but he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to believe them and doesn’t want to do anything about them, because he’s afraid, terrified, and then he thinks about _not_ , about how he’ll feel if he _doesn’t_ , if he lets this possibility go, and he kisses Derek. 

Derek kisses him back. 

Of course Derek kisses him back, but _Derek kisses him back_ , and by the time Derek stumbles them across the porch and Stiles’ shoulders hit the front door, Stiles is biting at his tongue. 

Derek makes a hungry noise and Stiles’ jaw drops a little, and then Derek licks and licks at his open mouth, and Stiles is glad Derek’s hands are underneath his jacket, fingers digging into his hips through his jeans, because Stiles is clawing at Derek’s back and he needs that to be okay. 

He tears his mouth away from Derek’s so he can drop his head to Derek’s shoulder and pant. 

Derek nuzzles—Derek _nuzzles_ at Stiles’ face, trying to get to his mouth again, and Stiles has no choice but to lift his head so he can see Derek as he pulls him in, as he presses their bodies together so he can ride Derek’s thigh. It’s still too dark, and Derek is good, Derek is with him, Derek is moving his leg to give Stiles the perfect angle to rock against, but when Stiles throws back his head to groan he’s saying, “Key.” 

“What?” Derek asks breathlessly, and Stiles curses, shoves him off, and digs through his pocket until he can brandish the key at Derek with a shaking hand. 

Then he has to get it into the lock, but once he manages that it’s clear road up ahead, and he slaps the lightswitch as he twists around to pull Derek from the dim light of the street outside to where Stiles can see him. 

Stiles pulls a little too hard, tripping back across the threshold, but that’s okay, because Derek is a werewolf, Derek is in control, and then they’re both crashing to the floor, Derek’s mouth on Stiles’ skin as soon as they’re down. 

“Shh,” Stiles says, trying not to laugh, but Derek hears it in his voice anyway, and grins wildly up at him, bites down hard on his neck, nudges Stiles chin back to make him feel it. 

Stiles isn’t laughing when he says, “Don’t wake my dad, don’t wake—“ 

Derek growls, and Stiles can feel the reverberation in his chest. 

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says, shuddering. “Door. Door, door—“ 

He has to kick it closed himself, and he curses at the noise. 

Derek’s hands are under his shirt again, tugging at his jeans, and Stiles makes a weak noise when Derek gets them open, gets his hand on Stiles’ cock, hates himself for it. 

“Light,” Derek says shortly. 

“Huh?” Derek jerks his head to the ceiling, towards Stiles’ dad, maybe. “No,” Stiles says, “No, it’s fine, it’s fine, I want to see you, I want—“ 

And then he makes a noise he doesn’t recognise as Derek’s hand strips his cock, once, fast and too tight, and Stiles is trying to fuck up into it even as Derek tugs his jeans down. 

“Yeah,” Stiles gasps, kicking the jeans away, trying to help, not knowing what he means. “Yeah, yeah, yeah—“ 

“Yes,” Derek says urgently, and Stiles’ jeans are still stuck around one ankle but Derek is already unbuttoning his own. 

He sighs once his cock is free, and Stiles wants to look at it, wants to see, finally, red and huge and hard and waiting for him, but he’s caught up in the expression on Derek’s face, the relief and pleasure. 

Derek’s eyes are closed, so Stiles can see as much as he likes, can watch and watch and watch Derek, never stop, but then his hands slide over Derek’s ass, over the rough denim, and yank Derek into him. 

“Fuck,” Stiles bites out, low, but Derek’s eyes are open and black, and Derek’s hands are on Stiles’ hips again, flipping him over, and then Derek’s mouth is on Stiles’ ass. 

“Fuck,” Stiles yelps, too loud, and Derek’s whispered, “Shhh,” vibrates through the soft skin that surrounds Stiles’ hole. 

It doesn’t help, and Stiles is panting, head on his trembling hands, and he has to bite into a forearm to silence himself when Derek licks into him. 

“Derek,” he forces out, chest heaving. 

“Mmm,” Derek says, a long, satisfied sound, and Stiles can’t stop the whimper, can’t stop rocking back into Derek’s face, and Derek’s tongue turns into a lash, fast and slippery and deep, and Stiles can barely interpret what he’s feeling, the sensations Derek is forcing through him, but by the time Derek stops Stiles’ fingers have left bruises on his own arms. 

Stiles finally shakes off his jeans as Derek moves up over him; the floor is hard under his knees and Derek’s jeans are rough against the underside of his thighs, but he can’t feel anything where Derek’s chest is resting against his back, because they both still have their jackets on. Stiles feels it when Derek’s hands pull his cheeks apart, though, when Derek’s cock nudges against him, and he’s scrambling for his discarded jeans before he can even get out a protest. 

Derek’s face goes blank when Stiles slaps the condom into his hand, but he goes with it after a second, releases Stiles so he can tear the packet and roll it quickly down his cock, and then he stands and Stiles has a moment of discombobulation, looking at Derek, fully dressed, barely rumpled, glittering eyes and exposed cock the only things that betray what’s happening, equally incredible. 

And then Derek lifts Stiles effortlessly, takes two long strides that bring Stiles up against the wall by the door, pushes until he’s right there, almost inside, and then lets Stiles go, lets gravity pull him down, almost where he needs to be, and Stiles slams his palm against the wall as Derek works his hips, works himself all the way inside, finally, _finally_. 

Derek pulls Stiles back up, holds him there this time, so he can fuck into him, hard and jarring and perfect, and Stiles knows he’s groaning with every thrust even before Derek bites deeply into his mouth, snarls, “Quiet.” 

And he tries, he does, but he can’t contain the muted stream of _oh_ s that escape him, and Derek won’t stop, won’t stop fucking them out of him, so after a while Stiles stops trying, just coils his leg tighter around Derek’s waist, electrified by the sliver of skin his calf finds between Derek’s sagging jeans and his shirt, and if Derek is going to insist on biting him quiet every time it gets too much Stiles isn’t going to complain. 

Derek’s hand against his ass is a shock, and when he clenches down fast and tight in reaction Derek shoves closer, shoves deeper and stays there, long thrusts turning to short, deep rocks. The blunt edge of one of the buttons on Derek’s jeans catches Stiles’ skin, little pulses of pain when Derek moves, and Stiles shivers out a moan and spreads his legs wider, and when Derek sinks in that fraction deeper he doesn’t do anything to silence the cry Stiles lets out because he’s releasing one of his own. 

And Derek keeps moving, keeps going, keeps Stiles with him though he feels like he’s going to _die_ , like he’s going to sweat to death through his clothes, and Stiles knows what he can take, exactly how much, and this is too—too—

Stiles bites down hard into the leather of Derek’s jacket, moves his teeth to Derek’s neck, and Derek’s hand isn’t even on his dick when he comes, just Derek’s cock inside him forcing it, making him, scraping him raw and perfect until he has to come or cry, and he thinks he might do both; but he comes and comes and comes until he blacks out, feels nothing for a moment, and then all he knows is his own breath rasping in his ears, seconds before he realises he can hear Derek’s too, and then Derek is letting his legs go, pulling out of him, pulling the condom off, cock messy and softening, and Stiles’ legs buckle when they hit the floor. 

Derek catches him, and Stiles is still gasping, body shaking awake, back to life, echo of pleasure living in his cells growing with every breath he takes, and if it were possible, he would be looking at Derek with something approaching peacefulness. 

But this reminds Stiles of the first time he’d had sex, when everything had been new and scary and brilliant. Derek has always been all of those things. 

So he’s feeling somewhat jangled when he says, “That was nice,” in a final tone, and he watches Derek freeze up, and he didn’t even mean it, _knows_ they’re going to do this again. 

All Derek has to do to put himself back together is get his jeans done up, and he manages it quickly though it must be painful. 

“My dad’s asleep,” Stiles says, and he means to tell Derek that’s why he has to go, but he stops himself before it comes out, not wanting to encourage Derek to believe that Stiles would want him to stay otherwise. “We didn’t wake him.” 

“No,” Derek says, moving towards the door, and Stiles follows him, even though he can’t contain the flush that spreads at the realisation that he’s walking half-naked through his father’s house with a dude he’s just fucked, with _Derek_ , perfect and contained, already untouchable again. 

When the door is open and Derek is sliding out, Stiles says, “I’ll see you in the morning,” an offering he doesn’t quite understand, and Derek turns back, still close enough to kiss; for a minute Stiles thinks he’s going to, and hovers on the brink of stepping back, but Derek doesn’t move, just lets his lips curl up and shuts the door quietly behind himself. 

*

In the morning, Stiles has an extremely important phone call to make. 

“Why do you let me do these things to myself?” he groans down the line at Scott. 

Scott doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. 

“Went for it, huh? Didn’t figure—“ 

“What?” Stiles moans. “This is all your fault, and you know you could’ve stopped it. You need to stop holding out on me.” 

“Didn’t figure you had the guts,” Scott says. 

“That is—“ Stiles says. “—totally inaccurate and your opinion is irrelevant. You’re supposed to stop me when I do shit like this.” 

“When have I ever done that?” Scott scoffs, which is a fair point. “And also, I don’t know if—“ 

“Opinion irrelevant.” 

“Whatever,” Scott says, annoyed. “So was it—?” 

“Was it what?” Stiles asks, because he should get _some_ pleasure out of this conversation. 

“Never mind, I don’t want to know.” 

“It was,” Stiles tells him. “Derek is very accomplished in bed, what’ve you guys been getting up to during pack bonding time?” 

“Gross!” 

“And you already know this—you’re right, gross—but that strength is a godsend when you really just need somebody to put their back into it and—“ 

“Lalalalalalalah!” Scott sings. 

“You are such a child.” 

“Tell it to mine!” Scott says. “I mean, tell my kid I’m immature. Because I can’t be, because I’m _having_ one!” 

“Such science at work there,” Stiles says approvingly. “Quality stuff.” 

“Yeah, my kid won’t need you to teach him science _or_ logic,” Scott says. “By the time he’s able to speak, which Chris informs me will be early because he says so, he’ll be like—“ And here Scott starts speaking in a ridiculous babyvoice. “Uncle Stiles, your logic is both refutable and dumb, and I knew this before I was capable of processing thought, because the cornerstones of my universe are that my parents are the awesomest and that it sucks to be you, Uncle Stiles.” 

“That’s _Mister_ Stiles to your hellspawn,” Stiles says. “No favouritism.” 

“Total favouritism,” Scott laughs. “What else is an uncle for?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles admits, cheerful, though he feels a sudden pang with the realisation that Scott and Allison are both only children, and he is in fact the closest thing to an uncle this child will ever have, for whatever that will be worth. 

Or maybe that isn’t true anymore, maybe Derek and Jackson will fill that role so well Scott’s child will never even notice Stiles’ absence. 

“You know Mr. Goldstein is retiring, right? There’s a job at the school next year.” 

“I have a job,” Stiles says tightly, and Scott hmms. 

“Hey,” Scott says abruptly. “My mom wants you to come over for dinner.” 

“Now?” Stiles asks. 

“I can ask her how tonight is.” 

“Because now would be good for me.” 

“I’ll call you back about it,” Scott says, and hangs up. 

“Rude,” Stiles says affectionately. 

All of his friends at home would probably hang up on him too, but mostly they just text each other times and places to meet, so it hasn’t happened in a while. 

He’s smiling at the phone, thinking about what he’s going to say to Derek when he calls him, and there’s a knock on the door. 

He knows it’s Derek immediately, and his feet drag on his way to answer. 

“Morning,” Derek says, holding up his brown paper bag like he thinks it’s the key to gaining access, and Stiles does take it from him before stepping back to let him in, so maybe he isn’t entirely wrong. 

“Dad isn’t up yet,” Stiles says through his mouthful of bagel, trailing Derek into the kitchen. Derek is in his uniform, crisp and smelling of laundry detergent; Stiles is still in boxers and tshirt, although at least they’re not the ones he’d worn the night before. 

“He texted to ask me to come over,” Derek says. 

“Well.” Stiles stands corrected. “Dad isn’t _down_ yet.” 

“Maybe I should go up,” Derek says, taking a seat at the table and lifting his eyes to the ceiling. “It’s business.” 

“No,” Stiles says, swallowing the last of his food, “you should stay here,” and shifts his body in a way he knows will attract Derek’s attention, just to see what will happen. 

Derek’s eyes darken, fix on Stiles’ face, and his mouth opens, and when he leans forward his hands tighten on his knees. 

Stiles thinks about taking the couple of steps necessary to join him at the table, shove him back in his chair, and crawl all over him, but when he hears his dad’s slow step coming down the stairs he leans back against the fridge instead. 

Derek releases a breath that Stiles can hear, and Stiles isn’t reading into this, knows better than to let himself get too deep, but it’s a heady feeling anyway. 

“Derek, Peterson is saying—“ his dad says as soon as he gets into the room, and then, “Stiles. I left my tablets upstairs, can you get them for me?” 

“No,” Stiles says. 

“Stiles,” his dad says sternly, so Stiles goes, because his dad is like that about official business, and Stiles jogs in place on the first step and then creeps back to listen outside the door, because _Stiles_ is like that about official police business. 

“—were the inside man,” his dad is saying. 

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” Derek says quietly. He knows Stiles is listening, and is probably used to pulling the old phonebooth whirl and change around the sheriff to hide his werewolf advantages, but he won’t reveal Stiles because he knows Stiles would just drag it out of him later. 

Stiles doesn’t want to hear it from Derek, though. 

“I know,” his dad says. “But they’re going through official channels with this, Derek, and we need to find something to fire back at them. You don’t need me to tell you the kind of stain this can leave, son.” 

“I’m confident it will come to nothing,” Derek says, and he sounds it, but Stiles can hear the anger boiling under. 

“Peterson is also saying he can link you to Dale and Williams,” his dad says. “He was throwing around the word ‘cohorts’.” 

“That was a long time ago,” Derek says, and his dad sighs. “I never mislead you about that, Fred.” 

“I know. I was just hoping it wouldn’t come back to bite you on the ass.” 

“These things will.” 

“Yeah,” his dad says equably. “But you need to swing at this hard.” 

“I will,” Derek promises. 

“Well,” his dad says, as if the matter is _settled_ , as if _any_ of that meant _anything_ to Stiles, and then all he can hear is his dad slurping coffee, so he’s about to start sneaking back to the stairs when his dad calls out, “Stiles. Need those tablets.” 

Stiles winces. “On it!” he calls back, and darts upstairs to change. 

When he gets back down, toast has appeared, Derek is still eating, and Stiles barely manages to grab a slice before it’s gone. 

“Thanks,” his dad says wryly, taking his blue plastic box, one of those days-of-the-week pill thingamajigs. There are more tablets than Stiles remembers, and he wonders if they’re all due to the injury. The doctor reduced his dosage at his check-up, so that’s something, anyway. 

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says cheerfully. “You okay if I head out with Derek?” 

“Yes,” his dad says forbiddingly, looking at Stiles from under his eyebrows, and Stiles looks back blandly so he can avoid Derek’s eyes while he looks between Stiles and his father, bewildered. 

“Fred—“ he starts, but, “No,” Stiles says, grabbing Derek’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “That is most definitely not happening. Let’s go.” 

“But—“ 

“You’re giving me a ride into the office now,” Stiles says, taking pains to make it sound the least suggestive he can, because he is not that much of a douchebag. 

“Okay,” Derek says, and then Stiles has to say, “And by ‘now’ I mean get moving,” and Derek finally gets his ass in gear. 

*

“Take Larkspur,” Stiles says, and Derek slows. 

“It’s longer.” 

“I know,” Stiles says, and Derek takes the turn. 

“Do you want to go somewhere else first?” he asks. 

“No,” Stiles says. “Just wanted to enjoy the view.” 

“There’s nothing down here,” Derek says, frowning. 

“Pull over,” Stiles says, though they aren’t far enough down the street yet. 

When Derek rolls to a stop, he turns to ask, “What are—“ and Stiles kisses him. 

“Come on,” he says, amused, and Derek’s head slams back against the headrest when Stiles’ hand tightens on his cock. “You know what this place is, right?” 

Derek looks around like he’s just noticing where they’re parked. “Fuck,” he says, though that may have more to do with the way Stiles’ hand is moving, and Stiles thinks he’d like to see Derek soak through his uniform pants, but they do actually have to go into the office after this, so he reaches for the fastenings. 

Derek slaps his hand away. “What are you doing!” 

“Giving you a blowjob,” Stiles says. “I’ll swallow, don’t worry.” 

“I’m not—“ Derek says, though his eyes darken. “That isn’t—“ 

“I won’t let anything happen to your uniform,” Stiles reassures him. 

“That isn’t what I’m worried about,” Derek says, fighting Stiles’ fingers as they work at his zipper. 

“Come on,” Stiles says, impatient with Derek’s recalcitrance. “I always wanted to do this here.” 

“I can’t do this here!” Derek says, voice rising, and then Stiles gets his hands on skin and Derek breaks off with a grunt, but he recovers enough to pull Stiles’ hands off again almost immediately. “Stiles, I can’t! I’ve patrolled here, I’ve chased off a dozen kids—“ 

“You don’t patrol here _now_ ,” Stiles says. “You’re not even on duty yet.” 

“Other people are,” Derek insists. “Other officers will be—“ 

“Nobody’s driving by until tonight,” Stiles says, sliding back so he has room to lean down over his trapped hands and put his mouth on Derek’s dick, and then Derek releases his hold on Stiles, puts his hands on Stiles’ head instead, and yanks him back up. 

“No,” he says curtly, and starts the car before Stiles has time to argue, and Stiles isn’t going to attempt to suck somebody off in a moving vehicle, because he values his life, thank you very much. 

“Are you seriously turning down a blowjob?” he asks, and that doesn’t sound _anything_ like a whine. 

“No,” Derek says, but he keeps driving, so Stiles settles back in his seat sulkily. 

Derek pulls into the lot of an apartment complex on Montrose. 

Stiles follows him out of the car and trails after him when he moves at a brisk clip towards the building. 

“I thought we were going into the office,” he says. 

“We are.” 

“Where are we going?” 

“I live here,” Derek says, shoving through the doors, and Stiles stops dead for a second before rushing to catch up. 

“You don’t have the house anymore?” 

“I do,” Derek says, hitting the button to call the elevator. “I don’t live out there.” 

“Huh,” Stiles says, and Derek keeps his eyes on the neon numbers. 

“It wasn’t practical,” he says, breaking under Stiles’ gaze. “This is near the office, so.” 

“Yeah, I get it,” Stiles says, and he thinks he might, but he doesn’t think that’s the reason Derek left. 

When the elevator’s a floor away, Stiles says, “So you think I’m going to suck you off in your apartment?” 

“Yes,” Derek says. 

“I wanted to do it in the car. Maybe I don’t want to do it in your apartment, maybe I’m not in the mood.” 

“You are,” Derek says. “And I am a responsible officer of the law, and I resent any attempt to persuade me into an infraction of—“ 

He stops speaking when the elevator arrives, and when they get in Stiles asks, “Does this thing have cameras?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek says, heated, but looks like he’s about to pounce on Stiles anyway, and then someone starts yelling for Derek to hold the doors, and a woman with a toddler on her hip gets in with them. 

Derek makes halting smalltalk all the way up, and the woman looks puzzled, maybe a little suspicious. She can probably tell they’re itching for her to be gone, and she keeps looking at Stiles curiously, although he doesn’t recognise her, so the chances this will be all over the station by the time they get in are slim. 

He barely manages a goodbye as he bolts off the elevator, and Derek doesn’t do much better. 

He pushes up against Derek’s back while Derek fumbles with the key, and when they spill inside, Stiles shuts the door by shoving Derek back against it as he drops to his knees. 

Derek pulls him to his feet. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Stiles asks, frustrated with Derek beyond belief. 

“The bed is literally ten feet away,” Derek says, and manhandles Stiles through his bedroom door and onto it. 

Derek comes down on top of him, lining them up and rocking, like he can’t wait long enough to do anything else, and Stiles had meant to make this a lot simpler, a lot cleaner, but Derek’s face is twisted in pleasure above him, and Stiles is urging him on before he knows what’s happening. 

“Take off your clothes,” he says distantly, removed from the thought but remembering that it was important, and then he opens his eyes and sees the brown material under his hands, shifting with Derek’s rough movements against him, and the sound Stiles makes is honestly embarrassing. 

Derek seems content to keep going like this, shifting together deep and hard until they both come, but this isn’t what Stiles asked for, isn’t what he’d wanted, and it’s his turn, so he fumbles his hands under Derek’s shirt until it parts for him. He thinks a button breaks loose, but he doesn’t really care. Derek props himself up on his hands above Stiles, giving him free reign to do what he will, but he grinds harder against him at the same time, so Stiles removes his hands from Derek’s chest so he can flip Derek onto his back and unbutton his pants. Once he gets his hands on the fly he realises it’s wet, so he drops his mouth down to suck at the fabric, taste of cotton and Derek’s arousal filling his mouth, and then once he gets the buttons open he still doesn’t get to see Derek properly, because his mouth is on Derek’s cock immediately, and Derek is just a blur of colour before Stiles closes his eyes. 

Stiles knows he’s good at this, but it feels like a remarkably short time before Derek is shoving up against Stiles’ face, a broken stream of noise spilling from him, and Stiles is looking up at him, trying to see his face past his pale chest framed by the familiar clothing, when Derek’s hands land on his head and pull him off. And then Derek is arching off the bed and Stiles doesn’t know where to look, Derek’s agonised face distracting him, but then Derek’s cock is spilling all over his belly, all over his pants, and Stiles can’t look away until Derek stops shaking enough to wrestle Stiles down and return the favour. 

When Stiles’ dick hits the back of Derek’s throat Derek doesn’t swallow, so Stiles puts his hand on Derek’s head and holds him there so he can rock steadily in, and then Derek looks right at him while he swallows and swallows and swallows around him, throat gripping tight every time, and it’s a relief for more than one reason when Stiles can break the gaze, throw his head back and come with a groan. 

Stiles bites back a whimper when Derek pulls his mouth away, entire body feeling bludgeoned by that sudden rush of sensation. Derek’s ruined pants slip down when he gets onto his knees, and he steps out of them as he stands and lets them drop to the floor. 

He shucks his shirt as well, falling to join the pants, and goes to the open wardrobe to pull out a pristine replacement uniform. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, still a little vague. 

Derek waits, then says, “You need one too.” His voice is a little hesitant, but it’s a good effort. 

“Nah, I think I’m fine,” Stiles says, and throws an arm over his eyes. “You go ahead.” 

When he hears Derek leave the room, he lets his arm slide to the mattress and blinks up at the ceiling. 

“Fuck,” he says softly, hoping the running water will cover it. 

*

Stiles did need a shower. 

He wasn’t filthy like Derek, now shower-fresh and squeaky-clean, but he sweated through his shirt, and it’s sticking to his skin in random, irritating patches. 

It’s making him snappish. There’s nothing else bothering him. 

He should have taken a shower. 

“So,” he says, when he’s sitting sullenly in Derek’s office, and he does realise his tone is not the most encouraging. It might be downright forbidding. “What’s going on with you?” 

“With—me?” Derek asks, looking at Stiles warily. 

“No, not with you,” Stiles says, annoyed. “With you and the marshals and this prisoner thing. Don’t make me drag it out of you.” 

“That’s sensitive information relating to—“ Derek starts. 

“Spare me,” Stiles says dismissively. “If the universe didn’t want me knowing confidential information regarding ongoing criminal investigations and events, it would not have made my dad the Sheriff, and it would not have allowed the internet to provide me tutorials on how to hack a police scanner.” 

Derek opens his mouth, and Stiles says, sternly, “No. And if you say anything shitty about my dad I’ll tell him exactly what I just did to you.” 

Derek shuts his mouth, then opens it to say, “Ate all my emergency Doritos?” 

“No,” Stiles says with dignity. “And you’re not distracting me.” 

Derek is distracting himself, though, and he looks conflicted when he says, “Hey, uh, this morning.” 

“Yes?” Stiles prompts, when nothing more is forthcoming. 

“How did Fred know about us?” 

“He doesn’t,” Stiles says, and that’s kind of a lie but it’s mostly the truth, because, “there’s nothing to know, really.” 

Derek’s face changes, softens with hurt and then tenses, hardens, and Stiles can’t deal with any of it. 

“He knew,” Derek says flatly. 

“He maybe figured out we’d had sex,” Stiles obfuscates. “But there’s nothing else to figure out, because there’s nothing else _going on_.” 

He feels like he should check in with Derek on that, add a _right? There’s nothing going on between us, right?_ like he’s a pathetic kid again, but he isn’t, and there _isn’t_ , and he isn’t going to. 

“But like I said, my dad is an awesome lawman and disciplinarian, and you can’t hide a thing from him, even if there’s barely anything to be discovered.” 

Derek doesn’t respond. 

“I’ll set him straight,” Stiles offers, barely biting back the bitchy _if you want me to_ , and Derek’s eyes flash and his mouth opens and then Mary pokes her head into the room. 

“So,” she says. “You two!” 

“Yes?” Derek asks. 

“No,” she says, “I mean, you two! Emma Anders called me.” 

Stiles doesn’t recognise the name, but Derek looks horrified. 

“She says you two were looking like a pair of rabbits in spring in that elevator, and I’m sure this is wonderful news, but I don’t know why it has to make you late.” 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. 

“Hmm,” Mary says, withholding forgiveness until Derek looks suitably chastened. “You do make a lovely couple, though!” 

“We’re not a couple!” Stiles protests. 

Now he’s the one being cowed by Mary’s glare. 

She turns back to Derek to say, “Emma asked me to recall to you the thinness of the walls,” and sweeps back out, letting the door bang behind her. 

Derek is still scowling when Stiles reluctantly turns back to him, and Stiles takes the opportunity to return to the topic. 

“So what’s with you and the escaped prisoners?” he asks breezily. “You biffys?” 

“No,” Derek says, and _it sounds like a lie_. 

“What?” Stiles demands. “You _are_?” 

“No,” Derek says defensively, then makes an impatient face and forces calmness. “They were just some people I used to know.” 

“People you used to know.” 

“We weren’t friends at all,” Derek says. 

“So what were you?” 

Derek shrugs, a telling twitch, and he looks deeply uncomfortable when he says, “I used to run with them. They weren’t very pleased with me when I stopped, but they hadn’t changed much from when I knew them, and I was never going to form a pack with them.” 

“They were omegas who wanted to join the pack.” 

“No,” Derek says. “I didn’t have a pack when I knew them.” 

“But when they found out you had one now they wanted to join it.” 

“No,” Derek says steadily. “They wanted to destroy it.” 

“They what?” 

“They came into town looking for me, but they’d planned to hunt Allison down first—they had maps printed off.” 

“But you knew they were coming,” Stiles says. “You stopped them.” 

“No,” Derek says. “They ran into Lydia in the supermarket while they were buying rope and they recognised my scent, so they went after her first. It was a mistake.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says faintly. “I would imagine.” 

“So I arrested them and put them in holding,” Derek continues, though Stiles hadn’t asked. “And I went to take care of my pack. The marshals were due to get in any minute and they would take care of the transfer. There were warrants out in several other states that would have taken priority.” 

“Warrants for what?” 

“Grand theft, kidnapping, rape and murder,” Derek says flatly. 

Stiles tries to laugh. “Some friends,” he says. 

“But they escaped before the marshals arrived. They went to your father’s house, probably looking for me. I’d said I had to report in to him within their hearing.” 

“You—“ 

“I was at Lydia’s, so when your father called in to report intruders I was close enough to get there quickly. They were fleeing the scene when I arrived, but when they saw me they attempted to retreat into the house. I shot them.” 

“They were werewolves. You could’ve shot them all day and they would’ve shaken it off and got back up.” 

“Argent let me have some ammo,” Derek says. “We needed to explain the state of the bodies, so it is believed they had a genetic allergy to lead.” 

“So,” Stiles starts. The faint ringing in his ears is lending itself to a certain detachment. “Old friends came into town looking for payback and when they couldn’t fix their issues with you by raping and killing my best friend’s pregnant wife they shot my father instead.” 

Derek twitches again. “Yes,” he says. 

Stiles draws in a breath, and then he has to let it go, because he can’t start shouting at the undersheriff in his office. 

After a second he says, “I have to go,” mechanically, and he knocks his leg against the corner of the desk as he rises, but the pain doesn’t really register. 

“Wait,” Derek says, and that might be alarm in his voice, but Stiles doesn’t care. “What—“ 

“Are you _serious_?” Stiles asks incredulously, voice rising dangerously. “Do you actually expect me to be okay with that?” 

“No,” Derek says, but then adds, “Your father knows, he—“ 

“I don’t care what my dad is okay with,” Stiles says, pinching the bridge of his nose until it hurts, but it does nothing to distract him. “I’m not.” 

“You don’t get to make that decision for him.” 

“Neither do you,” Stiles bites out. “And I’m making it for me. Is Scott all right with this, is _Allison_?” 

“I didn’t tell them he was going to go after Allison,” Derek says. “They had enough—“ 

“You didn’t tell them?” 

“It would’ve come up with the trial,” Derek says. “I just didn’t want to tell Allison while she was pregnant, and—“ 

“She’s going to _kill_ you,” Stiles says. 

“And now she never has to know, so obviously it was the right decision.” 

“Uh, _no_ ,” Stiles says. 

“I realise my choices aren’t perfect, Stiles,” Derek says, anger edging out defensiveness. “But you have no idea why I’m making them, and your judgement means very little.” 

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s surprised. “Got it,” he says, and the hardness of his voice is a relief. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, apologetic. 

“No,” Stiles says, “you endanger the lives of my friends and you get my father shot, but I don’t get to have an opinion.” 

Derek looks guilty, and then Derek looks angry again, and he says, “They’re barely even your friends anymore.” 

“Wow,” Stiles says. “Okay, fuck you too.” 

“Stiles,” Derek says again, but Stiles waves him off, already out the door. 

*

So maybe getting into this thing with Derek was a mistake, but he can’t regret it. He went for it because he couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing; he wants to be certain that there’s no potential here so he can say he tried and never have to second-guess himself, never have to give a second’s thought to Derek Hale again. 

He needs to be able to stop thinking about Derek. He needs to be able to file him away in a box in his head, a childish attraction that never had any place in his life, never had a hope in hell of working out, of mattering in the grand scheme of things. 

He needs to know that’s true. 

As it is, he stews in his anger all day, can’t let it go, and he’s startled by its vehemence. Stiles doesn’t really get angry very often anymore; there never seems to be much reason for it. It’s infuriating that Derek is dredging up all these things he’d thought he was done with, but when he thinks back on this he’ll remember how this felt, how much of what Derek made him feel was so unwelcome. 

When he realises the bubbling fury isn’t going away, he heads out to Derek’s apartment to wait for him to come home from work. 

Derek looks tired when he gets out of the elevator, and he’s surprised to see Stiles sitting in front of his door. 

Stiles gets to his feet. “You’re a fucker and I hate you,” he says, and Derek nods warily. 

“Open the door,” Stiles says impatiently, and when Derek does Stiles trips him to the floor and slams the door shut in the same ungainly movement. 

“Fuck,” Derek says, taking an elbow in the stomach on the way down, but he knows how to land, and all Stiles gets out of the fall is a banged knee. 

It’s difficult to get his jeans off while he’s kneeling on Derek, but Stiles manages it. 

“What—“ Derek starts. 

“Shut up,” Stiles snarls. “I don’t want to talk to you.” 

“What do you want?” Derek asks, hands tightening on Stiles’ hips, and Stiles slaps them away and scrambles for the packet of lube he’d brought for this, manages to tear it open on the second try. 

“Do what I want,” Stiles says, coating Derek’s fingers and pushing them directly to where he wants them, and Derek nudges right in, slow and firm. “I just want you to fucking—“ 

“What do you want?” Derek asks again, and when his finger gets deep enough Stiles can just slide right down, head going back at the rough drag. 

“That,” Stiles says, and he didn’t realise it was going to come out so spiteful. 

“This?” Derek presses another finger in beside the first, and Stiles resents the rush of pleasure that flows through him, so he bends forward to tear at Derek’s shirt and bite at his chest, ignoring what the change in angle does to him though Derek will know anyway. He bites and scratches at Derek because he can, because Derek can’t, and it’s a release to be able to dig his teeth in as hard as he wants, to claw at Derek until his nails start to ache, and know it’s okay, feel Derek’s cock hard against the inside of his thigh through his pants. 

Stiles doesn’t think about that though, just rides the spikes of feeling as Derek’s fingers brush into him, exactly where he wants them, and this wasn’t how he’d planned for this to go, but suddenly he’s coming all over another clean uniform, Derek working him through it. 

When he can register stimulus again, Derek is pulling his hand away, and there’s blood in Stiles’ mouth though Derek’s chest is unmarked. 

“How many uniforms do you have?” Stiles asks, noting absently that there are buttons on the floor beside Derek’s head. 

“Two,” Derek says forbiddingly, but he’s rocking against Stiles’ leg, hard and wanting, and Stiles is considering what to do about it when his phone goes off. 

“Don’t—“ Derek says, but Stiles is already saying, “Scott, hey!” 

“My mom says dinner tonight,” Scott says happily. 

“Cool!” Stiles says, sliding off Derek and reaching for his discarded clothes on his way into the bathroom. “Now?” 

Derek groans. 

“You’re invited too,” Scott says, and Derek glares at the phone before stalking into the kitchen. 

“He says thanks,” Stiles relays to Scott. “He’s thrilled.” 

Scott huffs a laugh. “Come over whenever,” he says. “We’re headed out now.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “be there soon,” and hangs up. 

When he gets out of the bathroom, Derek is starting a load of laundry, standing naked in the middle of his kitchen. 

Stiles can’t suppress the shiver that passes through him, and he stares longer than he means to; it takes too long to meet Derek’s eyes when he turns around. 

Stiles flushes, but Derek doesn’t say anything. “Are you coming for dinner?” Stiles asks. 

“Yes,” Derek says, like it’s obvious, like his natural place is at Ms. McCall’s dinner-table, like there’s a chance in hell he would’ve volunteered for that back when Stiles knew him. 

“I have to get dressed,” Stiles says, massively irritated, and grits his teeth when he realises he already is. “I’m not waiting for you,” he continues, not willing to acknowledge any correction is necessary, and somehow by the time he checks his pocket for his car-keys and locates his shoes and makes his way to the front door, Derek is standing beside him, fully dressed in his old uniform: tshirt, jeans and leather jacket, all regulation black. 

“You still think you’re twenty-two,” Stiles says, tone consoling. “ _That’s_ embarrassing. You barely got away with this then.” 

Derek follows Stiles’ gaze down to his clothes, but his face is so inquisitively uncomprehending when he looks back up that Stiles curses him for a killjoy and leads the way out. 

When they get to the lot they argue about whose car to take. 

“There’s no need to bring—“ Derek starts, for the nth time, considerably more frustrated than the first, which is fair, because Stiles is too. 

“This is not a date!” Stiles says, hoping to settle the matter, but Derek just looks considering. “You are not driving me—you know what, never mind.” He turns his back on Derek and pulls out his keys. “I don’t need to win here, because I don’t have to do what you say anyway.” 

“Do you even know wh—“ 

He gets into his car and regards Derek with a superior air, and when Derek glances at the passenger side door, Stiles activates central locking and tries to look unruffled. 

Derek gives him a scowl that Stiles might have been afraid of once upon a time, and follows him out onto the street, but Derek has overtaken him by the time they’re on Beechview, and takes a sharp right onto Williams Avenue while Stiles is sitting in the left lane waiting for the light to change. 

Stiles gapes after his disappearing tail lights for a second, then swerves sharply to follow, though he isn’t sure why, because it isn’t like he’s been gone so long he’s forgotten the way to his best friend’s childhood home. 

He catches up with Derek quickly, and follows him until he pulls to a stop on the street outside the Argent house. 

“What are we doing here?” Stiles asks him, not really expecting an answer. Scott’s car is in the driveway. 

“I wasn’t sure if you knew, but Argent and Melissa are living in sin,” Derek says, starting towards the house. “Don’t be weird in front of Allison.” 

“I would never be weird,” Stiles says defensively, as Derek raps on the door, “I am a prime example of savoir faire and ability to cope with all kinds of crap,” but when Ms. McCall swings open the door to greet them with a smile, all Stiles can do is gape at her as if the muscles in his face have all stopped functioning. 

“Stiles,” she says, wry amusement warm and familiar. “Good to see you.” 

“Good to see you Ms. McCall,” he garbles out, “here.” Derek shoves him through the door, and Stiles recovers enough to slap him away. “Hey, can I call you Mel?” he asks Ms. McCall, and opens his mouth to offer justification for the change, but she says, “No,” firmly, and sweeps away, and Stiles is overcome with an unexpected wave of untrammelled nostalgia. 

“I missed you!” he calls after her, shyly pleased when she responds in kind from wherever she’s vanished to, and then he slips away himself, so he can avoid Derek’s amused eyebrows. 

*

Allison is in the dining room. 

“Hey, Stiles,” she says, sounding totally stressed. 

“Hi, Allison,” Stiles says, cheerful but wary, mindful of Derek’s warning. “How are you?” 

“Fine,” says, obviously not. “Totally fine! So, let’s talk about you and Derek!” 

“Let’s not,” Stiles says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Nothing to talk about.” 

“Well that’s worth talking about,” she says, “since apparently you’re screwing like—“ 

“Does everyone know about that?” 

“No,” Allison says, but her eyes shift away. 

“Great.” 

“Yeah,” she says, bitterness in her tone. “I know.” 

“Do we need to talk about this?” Stiles asks, throwing caution to the wind when confronted with her strained face. “I feel like we should talk about this.” 

“I really don’t want to,” she says, heart in her eyes. 

“Fair enough,” he says equably, pulling out a seat for her at the table and taking one himself. “Neither do I. About me, I mean.” 

“But if I talk about you I don’t have to think about me,” she says miserably. 

“Okay,” he says, daunted. “I don’t know what to say, though, because, like, there’s nothing. I’m not going to—“ 

The realisation that the reason there’s nothing is because he won’t allow it is sharp. 

“There’s nothing.” 

“That’s sad,” she says. 

“It isn’t,” he says defensively. “Nothing about my life is sad, okay?” 

And that’s true: Stiles’ life is absolutely fine, even if what he has is a job he’s worked hard to get good at, and friends he does nothing but drink with, and guys he doesn’t want to remember the next morning, and nothing that comes close to anything he had here, even when he thought that _was_ nothing, even when he thought it counted for shit. 

“If you say so,” Allison says dubiously, and if Stiles didn’t know better he’d think she’d been drinking, but he can recognise a stray pregnancy hormone from twenty klicks away by now. 

“You’re upset,” Stiles says, foolishly. 

“I’m fine,” she says. “I just wish I didn’t have to talk about this, I wish nobody knew, I wish I didn’t—didn’t—I can’t even blame him, but I don’t care what she did. She was my _mother_.” Her face trembles, and Stiles starts to think he’s in over his head here, because he knows that feeling, and he can’t deal with it in himself, let alone in her. “I don’t blame my father, either, because she’s dead, but—She was my _mother_ , and I love you, I love you all, but I don’t _care_ —“ 

“Hey,” Scott says, appearing in the doorway and by Allison’s side before Stiles can blink. “Hey, babe, come on.” 

She buries her face in his chest for a second, and when she lifts it she’s composed again. 

“Yeah,” she says, and smiles at Stiles. “I didn’t mean to say that to you.” 

Scott pulls her out of the room, casting an anxious look back at Stiles, and then Stiles is alone, left to wonder what the _hell_ that was about. 

*

Everyone is in the kitchen when he follows Scott and Allison there, watching Ms. McCall pull something out of the oven. 

“I didn’t make this,” she tells Stiles. “I don’t cook anymore.” Stiles’ face spins to Chris Argent, watching proceedings placidly, and she laughs. “We order in and heat it up. We’re so busy. It’s good, and if you tell anyone about this you will not be welcomed back.” 

She’s smiling at him, but Stiles isn’t sure she’s joking. 

“I know better than to cross you,” he says. “I remember—“ 

“Nothing,” she says, dropping the tray on the table. “You remember nothing.” 

“Gotcha,” he says, and Chris, grinning, takes his hands out of his pockets to slice up the casserole, and Stiles can’t believe this is his life, so he dismisses Allison’s pregnancy hormones; she doesn’t need the excuse. 

Everyone moves to the dining room, a minor fight over who gets to carry the best dish settled when Melissa takes it herself, and they take their seats quickly, used to the routine. 

“Ah, ah,” Ms. McCall says to her son, “move up,” and half the table shifts down so Stiles is sitting next to Derek. 

“Thanks,” he says sarcastically. 

“No backtalk,” Ms. McCall says, and Chris says, “Are we encouraging this?” 

She makes the so-so gesture with her hand, and Stiles gives serious consideration to burying his whole head in the bowl of casserole, just so everybody else’s dinner will suck as much as his does. 

Instead, he says, “Well, if you told me I could I wouldn’t want to,” and Ms. McCall pauses with her mouth full of food. 

“I never actually wanted to dissuade Scott from anything,” she says, then, “well, any _one_ ,” and waves vaguely in the direction of Allison’s belly while Allison’s dad pretends to be deaf. “Thanks for the tip, though.” 

She looks thoughtful, and Stiles waits for her to try the suggested reverse psychology, but she scoops up another forkful of pasta and changes the subject instead. 

“Yeah,” Jackson tells her. “We’re totally keeping up the membership.” 

“I like the clubhouse,” Lydia chimes in, though if they’re talking about the links, then Stiles has been to the clubhouse, and knows the only thing Lydia could possibly like about it is that other people aren’t allowed in. 

“I don’t get out as much as I’d like,” Jackson says. 

“Jackson really likes how good other people think he is at golf,” Lydia says sweetly. 

“I’m good at golf.” 

“Since any werewolf could hit a ball from the eighteenth to the other side of the parking lot without even trying and—“ 

“I was good at golf before I was a werewolf!” Jackson insists hotly, and the conversation devolves into an argument Stiles was sick of listening to by junior year, so Melissa changes the subject again. 

“Stiles,” she says. “You should have brought your father. I haven’t seen him since the accident.” 

Stiles has to bite back the first rush of responses: that this wasn’t an accident; that everybody asks but nobody finds out, his dad’s place in this town as tied to his function as ever; that Derek has been over so much Stiles had really been _thinking_ about wondering why, but now he knows it was guilt, just guilt, and rational at that. 

He avoids Derek’s eyes so he can say, “He’s doing better. I’ll invite him next time.” 

It’s true, and the relief starts to unwind the hard knot lodged under his ribs, but then he meets Allison’s eyes and it jumps up tight into his throat. He swallows with difficulty. 

“—great,” Melissa is saying. “I was so worried.” 

“We all were,” Chris tells him, eyes distant and warm, his familiar regard a weirdly comfortable memory. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says quietly, as Melissa speaks over him: “And Mary told me all about this nurse.” 

“How does Mary know about Helen?” Stiles asks. “ _I_ barely know about Helen and I’m living there.” 

“He deserves it,” Melissa says firmly, and Stiles doesn’t disagree, so he smiles like nothing about any of this is uncomfortable at all. 

“—would be disgusting even if cardiovascular health and cancer _weren’t_ a concern, and that’s what I told her,” Lydia is saying, apparently enjoying the ugly flush she’s raising in Jackson’s cheeks. 

“He’s been alone for a long time,” Melissa says, and her voice is quiet, like Allison won’t hear her, sitting two places down, but Allison flinches, and Stiles does too, though for a different reason. 

“He hasn’t been alone,” Stiles says, cutting into Jackson’s raised voice, silencing him as Allison says, “It wasn’t that—“ and cuts herself off as the sudden lack of concealing noise registers. 

“Can I have some more water?” she asks, and Scott stands to get her some though her glass is still half full. 

“You’re going to need your medicine if you’re eating the cheese later,” Melissa says, and that distracts Allison enough that she forgets to look resentful as she goes rummaging in her handbag, and when she emerges with a blister of tablets and pops three in quick succession, her eyes are only reserved. It’s a relief. 

Everything about this is unexpected tension and sudden release, and when Stiles counts the years since Allison’s mother’s death, he doesn’t think things should still be this strange. 

“What shift are you working tomorrow?” Allison asks Melissa politely, and Stiles doesn’t think anyone should have to be _trying_ this hard by now. 

Lydia and Jackson jump in as Melissa carefully turns the conversation to Allison’s pregnancy, but Derek is uncharacteristically silent. Stiles eyes him warily as he lingers over his casserole, face downturned, fork tracing hatches in the sauce. 

“You don’t even like that,” Stiles mutters, sliding insignificantly closer. Derek looks at him through his lashes, though his head doesn’t move. “You hate broccoli.” Stiles doesn’t know why he remembers that. 

Derek’s lips curve, and he looks away from Stiles, a shy cast to the action though Derek is anything but, and Stiles has to try hard to resist the pull of the implied intimacy when Derek murmurs, “That’s why I’m not eating it,” low enough that Stiles has to lean in to catch the words. 

“Yeah,” he says, refocussing on Derek’s cheek, suddenly closer, and he takes a breath before settling back into his chair. He’s fairly sure the lurch is only in his mind. “Good plan.” 

Half the table is looking at him, but they look away when he catches them. 

“—take you through it again,” Melissa is telling Allison. “I’m not in obstetrics, but—“ 

“You don’t have an opinion?” Stiles asks Derek, right back where he was before, helplessly disobeying his better judgment. His shoulder is nudging Derek’s arm, and Derek is relaxing into him, though Stiles can see the tension around his eyes. 

“No,” Derek says. “I don’t know anything about it.” 

“Never stopped you before.” 

“Yeah.” Derek smiles, strained. 

“And this is pack, right, the next generation, so—“ 

“I don’t have an opinion,” Derek says, drops his fork, and sits up, leaving Stiles twisting in the wind, leaning off his chair towards the empty place Derek had been. 

Stiles doesn’t feel a lurch this time, just disgruntlement. He glares at Derek. 

Lydia is saying, “—know how to breathe, and all werewolves know how to deal with pain, so—“ 

Allison is glaring at Derek too. 

“I really don’t think having a high pain threshold qualifies you to instruct on how to cope with a sustained assault on—“ Melissa is saying when Derek interrupts, looking at Allison for the first time since sitting down, saying, “If you want it, the offer’s there. You know—“ 

“I don’t want it,” Allison says coldly. “Scott, can I have some more water?” 

Nothing gets better from there. 

*

When they eventually manage to escape, Lydia and Jackson head for the hills immediately, and Scott makes halfhearted noises about Stiles coming over for a beer, not looking Derek in the eye or extending the invitation his way, before Allison yells, “So I’m driving myself home?” and he bolts. 

“What the fuck was that?” Stiles asks, when they’re alone in front of the Argent house, standing by their cars. He supposes he can’t call it the Argent house anymore, since Ms. McCall is living there. 

Derek shrugs. “Allison gets weird about family sometimes.” 

“Why does she hate you more than her stepmom?” 

Derek shrugs. 

“That isn’t an answer,” Stiles says, annoyed. 

“They aren’t married,” Derek says, then, at Stiles’ glare, “She hates Melissa too.” 

“Derek.” 

Stiles watches as Derek tries to rid himself of the hunch his shoulders snap into; he doesn’t quite manage it. 

“She blames me for her mother’s death,” he says. 

Stiles’ attention is on the tension in Derek’s shoulders, so it takes a second for that to register. 

“She blames you for—“ 

“Killing Victoria,” Derek says, easier now. “Sometimes.” 

“She sometimes blames you for killing her mother,” Stiles says raggedly. 

“She always blames me,” Derek says, “but sometimes it gets to her more, when she remembers her mom’s never going to see her kid, or see her get married, God, do you _remember_ the wedding?” 

“Yes,” Stiles says numbly. 

Now that he thinks about it, the day that Scott and Allison married, Derek was on the fringes more than would have been natural, given how close Scott and Derek had gotten even by the time Stiles left. Derek had been an uncomfortable, intrusive presence lurking on the periphery of his own pack, and nobody had made a move to draw him in, which would have made sense once, but Stiles should have noticed it was a change, should have questioned it. 

He’d had other things to concentrate on that day, the first time he’d seen Derek since Derek had kind of, maybe broken his heart. He had barely let himself look at Derek, unwilling and unable to let Derek ruin all the work he’d put into being okay somewhere else, being okay somewhere else with somebody else’s life, the way Derek is now, the way Derek _has_ now. 

Stiles steps back, and Derek looks startled. 

“Hey—“ Derek says uncertainly. 

“Does everyone know?” 

“No, they—“ Derek’s eyes are tracking over Stiles, and Stiles doesn’t know what Derek is reading off him, but his eyes are wide and dark and intense and Stiles wants them to go away. “They don’t blame me.” 

It’s so unfair that every breath is a painful rasp, and he’d known Derek would do this to him, he’d known but somehow he’d forgotten to expect it. His hands curl in helpless anger, something he’s felt a lot since his return, but never for this reason, never because he’s felt like this, and never because he’s felt this pathetic. 

“Should they?” 

“No,” Derek says sharply, and bites back whatever else he’d been going to say. 

Stiles believes him, probably, the same way Allison probably does, and right now he thinks he might care about as much as she does too. 

He doesn’t care that the rest of the pack doesn’t blame Derek for killing Victoria, and he wouldn’t care if they did, and he doesn’t care what Derek did to Victoria Argent, and okay, he _cares_ about whatever Derek did that lead to his friends threatening Allison and almost killing Stiles’ dad, but it doesn’t matter, he can’t—

“Do you want to—“ Derek starts, but Stiles says, “I’m going to go,” and jerks a thumb over his shoulder at his car. “And since you murdered Allison’s mother and almost got my father killed, I don’t actually want to, no.” 

It’s a lie, which is why he doesn’t look at Derek as he gets into the car, doesn’t look at his face in the mirror as he drives away, and he doesn’t draw a steady breath until he’s three streets away. 

It’s a lie. He wants to; he doesn’t know how to stop wanting to, and he _hates_ Derek for that. 

That’s a lie too: mostly he hates himself. 

*

Stiles phones Scott as soon as he gets home. 

“What the hell happened to Victoria?” he asks abruptly, interrupting Scott’s greeting, and Scott is suddenly silent on the other end of the line. 

“Yeah, just a sec,” he says, and then Stiles can hear him murmuring to Allison, making excuses as he leaves the room. There’s an echo when he says, starkly, “She was killed. It had to happen.” 

“But—“ Stiles is feeling a little shaky, he can admit it. It’s one thing for the guy you’re into to kill his serial-killer-alpha of an uncle, or the alpha of a rival pack who’s coming after his own, but it’s something entirely different when it’s the mother of your friend. 

“It had—It wasn’t Derek’s fault if that’s what you’re worried about,” Scott reassures him. “Allison just—“ 

“There’s a reason she thinks it is,” Stiles says. “I want to know.” 

He has to wait for the answer, and when it comes, Scott only says, “No you don’t.” 

“Tell me what happened,” Stiles says, and when this answer comes it’s, “No.” 

“Scott, I want to—“ 

“No!” Scott says, voice anxious. “Stiles, you weren’t—I’m sorry, but you weren’t here and I can’t tell you because you don’t—You don’t understand what it was like.” 

Stiles can feel panic rising, and it’s almost a relief to have another focus for it. “So tell me,” he says again. 

“No,” Scott says quietly, and hangs up. 

*

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that. It certainly isn’t the first time Scott has left him hanging, ended a conversation before Stiles was ready, but it’s the first time he remembers that Scott has left him on the outside, a deliberate exclusion he didn’t even try to hide. 

Stiles makes his own way to the Sheriff’s office the next day, although he doesn’t want to see Derek, but in the event, all he sees is Derek’s back vanishing through a doorway Stiles is pretty sure leads to the janitor’s closet, ducking out of any kind of confrontation before Stiles has the chance to do the same. 

Scott isn’t answering his phone. 

So Stiles doesn’t have much choice but to go over to Jackson and Lydia’s that evening; they’re the only ones he’s still on easy terms with. 

“Don’t you have better things to do?” Lydia asks as soon as he sits down on her couch. “Why aren’t you out fucking Derek or something? We do have a life that doesn’t include you, you know.” 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

“No,” Lydia says. 

“We were just going over to Spiral later,” Jackson says, and Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up at the name of the club. It hadn’t been around when he’d left, but he’s heard enough about it since he’s been back. 

Lydia glares, but at Jackson, so Stiles doesn’t care. 

“What?” Jackson says. “I’m just saying, we can do that any time. He isn’t interrupting anything.” 

“Or we can not do it,” Lydia says, tone all _how d’you like_ them _apples_? Jackson is ready to argue, but Lydia turns to Stiles before he has the chance, waspish when she asks, “But seriously, don’t you have anything else you can do?” 

“No,” Stiles says, because he isn’t a teenager anymore, and he can admit when he hasn’t got anything going on. He isn’t ashamed, and he doesn’t want to go out the way he would have when he was younger, try and work his way up to something somewhere with someone, not when things with his people are in this kind of mess. He wants to fix it. He doesn’t know how things are going to be, or even how he wants them to be, but he knows he needs to fix things somehow, because he doesn’t know if he’s capable of seeking out new people at this point; he’s tried that once already, and it didn’t really work out for him, and he’d been a lot younger then and everything had felt easier. 

He isn’t even thirty yet, but he feels old, unhappy with the world that stretches beyond his gaze, and dissatisfied with the shape of the universe under his fingers, and if he can affect anything at all here he can only influence one of those things, he thinks, and he’s just glad it’s the one he cares about. 

“That’s so sad,” Lydia says. “Your life is so sad.” 

Stiles bites back the instinctive denial, and tries not to think about it, tries not to think about how true that is. 

“What’s going on with Allison and Derek?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Lydia says evenly. She might even have convinced herself that’s true. 

“Scott wouldn’t tell me whatever it was but I know you know.” 

“I do,” Lydia says. 

“So tell me!” 

“No.” 

“I already know about Derek’s friends,” Stiles says. “Maybe I should trade secrets with Allison.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Lydia says, but she doesn’t look certain, and when Stiles stands firm she says, “This is why nobody wanted to tell you,” and Stiles has to pretend to be unaffected by that. 

“Derek killed his friends—“ 

“They were threatening his pack,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes and checking her hair in the reflection of the dark TV screen. “Of course he killed them. This isn’t going to be some weird thing for you, is it? Killing people?” 

“It isn’t a weird thing,” Stiles protests. 

“Because they almost killed your father,” Lydia says, almost kindly. “I would think you would be thankful.” 

“I just want to know what’s going on,” Stiles says, at the end of his tether. “With Derek killing his friends and Victoria and—“ 

“These things are unconnected!” Lydia says, waving her arms in an irritable negatory gesture. “Stop conflating your issues.” 

“So tell me,” Stiles grits out, “and I will.” 

“Screw you,” Lydia decides. “You don’t know what happened because you didn’t want anything to do with us, so whatever happened while you were off fucking around is none of your business, and if Scott wants you to know he’ll tell you himself. Jackson, we’re going to Spiral.” 

And she throws him out. 

*

Stiles thinks about following them to the club, but tells himself he isn’t that obsessed, even if that’s a lie; the real reason he goes home is because he knows absolutely nowhere would let him inside dressed as he is. 

His dad is out with Helen, and when he comes home Stiles is slumped over the kitchen table, head pillowed on the back of his hands. 

“How come Allison gets away with everything?” he asks his dad. “She’s meaner to Derek than I am.” 

His dad’s pause sounds doubtful. He says, “Well, they’re used to her,” and Stiles groans miserably. 

“Thanks, dad!” he yells, but his dad is already shuffling up to bed and waves him off. 

*

The next day is much the same, except that Derek is in the office all day, and Stiles gets to stare broodingly at his back for most of it. 

He tells himself he’s being subtle, but at five to five Mary waves an energetic hand in front of his face and then says, “If you don’t get over there this second I’m going to introduce him to my nephew Steve and his girlfriend Jessie, lives next door to your dad? Lovely couple, and they’ve been looking for a third party for their—“ 

Stiles makes a horrified face and darts past her before she can finish the sentence, and then he has to hover at Derek’s back as Derek taps irrhythmically at Swinson’s keyboard, because he has no idea what to do. 

Eventually, Derek finishes the longest paragraph known to man, closes down Swinson’s word processor, and spins around in his chair to face Stiles. 

He clears his throat. “I don’t want to fuck Jessie Torrance,” he says in a low voice. Stiles can still _see_ people listening. “Or her boyfriend Steve, Mary’s nephew—“ 

“I know!” Stiles says hurriedly. “Can we—“ 

He twitches uncomfortably, casting a glance towards the door, and Derek gets up, grabs his coat, and puts a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, propelling him speedily out of the room, down the corridor, and into the open air. 

“That was _not_ subtle,” Stiles says feelingly, because he has been, Mary doesn’t count because Mary knows everything. “Or understanding or—why are we going to your car, I don’t even have my keys.” 

“I’ll drop you home,” Derek says, and then ignores every conversational venture Stiles makes until he climbs out in front of his apartment. 

“Come on,” he says, and Stiles skitters after him into the building. 

“You can’t just say things like that in front of the whole office!” he hisses in the elevator, because he doesn’t recognise this harassed mom either, but never let it be said that Stiles doesn’t learn his lesson; he knows she’ll have a direct line to Mary. 

“Why not,” Derek says flatly. “It was true.” 

“But you shouldn’t be saying that kind of thing to me,” Stiles says, exasperated, and then the elevator pings and Derek’s hand is tight on the back of his neck, pushing him out and towards the door of his apartment. The lady they leave behind on the elevator calls something after Derek, but Derek doesn’t acknowledge her. 

“What are you _doing_!” Stiles says, squirming under Derek’s hand, though he kind of knows. 

When they’re through the door, Derek shoves Stiles back against it, and again until it snaps closed, and he’s close and hard against him as he says, “You don’t get to ask me about Victoria Argent.” 

“I didn’t!” Stiles says breathlessly. “I don’t fucking want to know, okay?” 

His leg is around Derek’s hip, and he isn’t sure whether he’s trying to climb Derek or rock them both together. 

“You—“ Derek says, sounding breathless too, though he doesn’t really get winded. 

“I don’t want to!” Stiles says harshly, hands tight on Derek’s shoulders, pulling him closer. 

“Asshole!” Derek snarls, but he shoves his hips into Stiles, so Stiles will take it. 

“Yeah,” Stiles pants, too eager, “Fucking come on, yes, fucking—“ 

Derek bites down hard on the junction where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder, and it kind of hurts, and Stiles wants to yelp, but he’s tilting his head back for more instead. 

“Why are you such an asshole all the time,” Derek snarls again, but it’s a real snarl this time, and his rough, lengthening nails are scraping at the waistband of Stiles’ jeans, and Stiles shoves him away abruptly. 

“Me,” Stiles says, gesturing at Derek’s body: at the face with the sharp, protruding fangs; at the hands with the thick, yellow nails, with the wiry hair that marks him as pack, as someone who belongs. Stiles knows the resentment makes his voice sound disgusted when he says, “Me!” 

“You!” Derek says, voice a bark, and his hands press against the door above Stiles’ shoulders until they’re back to normal. “You leaving, leaving forever, and then coming the fuck back, like you can do that, like you have any _right_ , like—“ 

“Like I have anywhere else to go!” Stiles yells, and then pants into the silent space between them. 

“After being _alone_ for so long!” Stiles bursts out, an ugly torrent of hurt and frustration he can’t regret releasing. “You took everything, you took everyone, and you left me alone!” 

“That isn’t true,” Derek says calmly, almost casually removing his body from Stiles’, but Stiles can see the clouds gathering. “I pushed you away, it’s true, and you have every right not to care what my reasons were, but you’re the one who left everyone behind, and if you think otherwise for a _second_ you’re lying to yourself. _Nobody_ here would have chosen me over you. That isn’t what happened.” 

And that isn’t true, that’s—Stiles knows that isn’t the truth, but it does sound like it. 

“My dad’s calling you _son_ ,” Stiles spits bitterly. 

“You _left_ him,” Derek says, voice a furious lash. “You went away and you never came back, and if you think he didn’t need to fill that void you’re stupid, and if you think he was ever _able_ to you’re stupider than I imagined possible.” 

“That isn’t fair,” Stiles says. 

“It isn’t,” Derek agrees, “But it’s the truth.” 

“Stop,” Stiles says. 

“No.” 

“ _Stop _,” Stiles says again, as Derek’s fingers dig into his chin, tilting his head up, and Derek says, “ _No___ ,” again, not a real snarl this time, though Stiles feels it vibrate through him, and then Stiles is opening his mouth so Derek can bite at him, shoving Derek backwards until they tumble down onto the floor beside the couch. 

“No,” Derek says again, calmly this time. Stiles is whimpering in protest as Derek rises, but Derek gets up, leaves the touch of Stiles’ body until he picks him up and carries him carefully into the bedroom before dropping him onto the bed. 

Stiles bounces, whining again, limbs loose and sprawling as he relaxes onto the bed, and Derek joins him there almost immediately, but Stiles is reaching desperately for him before he gets there anyway. 

“Derek,” Stiles says, legs tight around the backs of Derek’s thighs, arms looped around his shoulders, pulling him in. “Derek.” 

Derek pulls away to strip out of his clothes, and Stiles tries to do the same, though his fingers are numb and useless and Derek has to help get his shoelaces undone and pull his pants off. Derek lies on top of him again, skin smooth and warm where they touch, and it’s an accident that they end up settling into something that feels like a full-body hug. 

Stiles’ mind is blank of anything else, and he would’ve though Derek’s must be too, but Derek is propping himself up, reaching out to his bedside locker, and when he comes back with his lube it’s half empty, and Stiles has to try not to be jealous, because he knows it isn’t fair. He isn’t very successful. 

“I know you’re mad,” Derek says, unscrewing the cap quickly, one-handed, getting gel everywhere and ignoring the mess, reaching down to trace his fingers over Stiles’ ass, press right in, and Stiles’ knuckles go white as his fingers dig into Derek’s waist, though he’s moaning and tilting his hips for more as Derek twists his fingers, works him open quickly. “But that isn’t everything, that isn’t the only thing that matters. It isn’t what matters.” 

Derek’s breath is unsteady as he pulls his fingers away from Stiles, and Stiles is going to say something about that, about Derek not getting to tell Stiles what matters, but before he can figure out what he even means, Derek is pushing inside him, sharp and bright and utterly, utterly distracting. 

Stiles is pretty sure he should be protesting, should be arguing _something_ , anything, but instead he’s rolling into it, shivering as Derek palms his ass to get a better angle, as Derek says, “Stiles,” like it means something, and puts his forearm on the bed so he can duck his chin onto Stiles’ shoulder, brush their faces together as he starts fucking in. 

Stiles’ legs are starting to ache, spread wide under Derek’s belly, so he winds them back around Derek’s hips; it takes an effort, because pleasure is firing through the rest of his body, and it’s difficult to focus on anything else, but it makes it easier, even though it changes the angle again, makes him smaller, makes it better, close and warm and—

“Fuck,” Stiles pants, nails digging into the small of Derek’s back. Everything’s getting a little hazy, the movement of Derek inside him the only thing that matters now, and when Stiles blinks his eyes open, blinks the sweat away so he can see, the world is just a wash of colours. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, deep inside and not ceding ground, and, “Don’t be,” Stiles says, tightening around him, legs and arms and everything, everything out of his control and clinging. “Don’t be sorry.” 

And he means it, even though it hurt, still does, because it was real, _is_ real, and the lingering reminder is a rush of relief under his skin. 

It barely takes the touch of Derek’s hand on his cock to make him come, and it’s an aching effort in every part of his body, straining for more of the pleasure, even his shaky gasps hurting his throat, and when it’s over it’s as if a string has been cut. 

Derek keeps fucking him, a weak pile of panting flesh on the mattress, and it still feels good, random spikes of useless lust thrilling through him. Stiles watches as Derek’s face twists, as he gets close, and it’s difficult, because he wants to kiss Derek’s mouth, cheeks, wants to look away so he won’t see this, and he can’t do either of those things. 

“Come back,” Derek pleads, and they’re both shaking as Derek comes inside him, the first time Stiles has ever felt it, filthy and good. He should have objected to that, but he doesn’t even want to anymore; it feels too much for that. “Come back,” Derek says again, “Come back,” and Stiles presses Derek’s wet mouth deeper into his shoulder to make him stop. 

Derek collapses onto the bed beside Stiles afterwards, and Stiles lets himself drift for a little while, but then he has to pull himself to his feet and go into the bathroom to clean up. He twitches as he drags his clothes back onto his sleepy, sensitive body. Derek is watching him with alert eyes when he eventually gets his buttons done up. 

“I have to go,” Stiles says awkwardly. 

“Of course you do,” Derek says, dragging a hand through his hair and staring up at the ceiling. 

“This isn’t—we’re not just going to magically fix things by screwing until I forget everything that’s wrong,” Stiles says. His voice sounds odd, because he’s thinking about what Derek had said, _come back_ , like Stiles isn’t here now, like Stiles isn’t already giving Derek everything he could possibly want from Stiles. 

He doesn’t want to think about it, and normally his brain shies away from things he doesn’t want to think about, does the work for him, but it’s repeating in a loop, _come back_ , _come back_ , _come back_. 

“Your belt is under the bed,” Derek says, not looking at Stiles, and that shouldn’t hurt but Stiles flinches anyway. 

He grabs the belt and leaves. 

*

Stiles floats in a strange sort of stasis over the next few days; Derek avoids him at work while Stiles ploughs through the mountains of paperwork still to be done, and his friends don’t exactly ignore him, but things are stilted and uncomfortable in a way they’d avoided when they were, apparently, pretending everything was okay. 

He thinks about letting go, giving up, going out and finding somebody to fill the space and make him stop thinking about it, nothing that would matter, and nobody that would matter, but enough to make it through; but the idea doesn’t bring him any pleasure, not even any satisfaction, and it’s a heavy weight sitting on his chest while he considers it, so he lets that go instead and is almost bewildered at the relief he feels. He doesn’t know if he can figure out the mess everything is in, or if it will bring him any pleasure if he does, but he thinks it might, thinks there might be happiness here, just beyond his reach, and he tries not to think about that too much, because it’s a painful scrape across the surface of his mind, but he can’t quite suppress the bubbling, stupid hope that feels like nausea. 

He doesn’t know why he’s feeling this _now_ , when everything is worse than ever, but he clings to it unsteadily, though he doesn’t think he could make it go away if he tried. 

He spends more time with his dad, which is nice, but the second time he accidentally interrupts a phone conversation with Helen while checking to see what his dad’s doing and if he wants to be doing something with Stiles instead, Stiles realises it’s weird even before his dad starts throwing him worried looks. 

“I know,” he says when his dad approaches him about it. “I know, okay?” 

“Yep,” his dad says awkwardly, and Stiles hopes that will be the end of it, but his dad seems to think the situation requires something more, lingering awkwardly. 

“You don’t have to worry,” Stiles says, though he knows his dad will. 

His dad grunts. “Derek hasn’t been around lately,” he says. 

“No.” 

“I’m just worried,” his dad says. 

“About Derek?” 

“Those marshals are back stirring trouble up for him and I haven’t seen him since they got back into town. It isn’t good timing, that’s all. Tell him to come see me, will you?” 

“Uh—“ 

“I’ll have to go out and find him if he doesn’t.” 

“Fine!” Stiles says, knowing he’s being played. “Fine, God.” 

“No rush,” his dad says, and then waits for Stiles to leave. 

*

Derek is at the office when Stiles gets there; Stiles sees his car outside, and Jill Lightbody waves him vaguely to the conference room down the hall when he asks where Derek is, but by the time he gets there the room is empty, and when he checks back outside the car is gone. 

“Great,” Stiles mutters. 

He scratches at his jaw and stares at the bright sky, thinking about using Scott as GPS and finally running Derek to earth, and his blood rises at the idea, a sick excitement bubbling in him. He thinks he feels more excited than sick, but he’s still a little queasy when a dark car pulls into Derek’s vacated space and two men in suits get out. 

It takes him a second to recognise Mitchell, faded to insignificance beside his partner, who is striding towards Stiles like an invading army. 

“You must be Peterson,” Stiles says, with a cheer he doesn’t feel. 

“Mr Stilinski, we need to speak to you privately,” Peterson says. 

“Nice to meet you too.” 

“We have questions about Derek Hale,” Peterson says. It feels like an attack. 

“Deputy Hale,” Stiles corrects, sparing a glance for Mitchell, hanging back and staring at a point over Stiles’ shoulder. 

“And given the nature of your relationship with him you probably don’t want to answer our questions in front of your friends,” Peterson says, nodding past Stiles at the building. “We understand this is a delicate situation given Hale’s relationship with your father.” 

“Not really,” Stiles says, though Peterson is right; he doesn’t want it getting back to his father that he was interrogated by federal marshals because of Derek. 

“Do you have an office inside?” Stiles asks reluctantly. 

“We’re about to visit a witness. We can interview you in the car on the way and drop you off somewhere,” Peterson suggests. 

“I was on my way in,” Stiles says, which is true enough: he’d actually been about to shake Mary down for information about Derek’s schedule today and attempt to track him down. 

Peterson puts a guiding hand on Stiles’ arm, directing him towards their towncar, but Stiles shakes him off in irritation. “I can walk,” he snaps, and makes his own way to the backseat. 

Peterson’s sunglasses flash with reflected glare as he directs Mitchell into the car with a jerk of his chin. 

The car rolls smoothly to the exit of the parking lot. 

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks to fill the silence as they wait for the light to change so they can pull out into traffic. 

“Montrose,” Peterson says after a brief pause, and flicks on the radio. 

“Huh,” Stiles says. Derek lives on Montrose, but he doesn’t want to volunteer his knowledge of the fact to Peterson. “You’re better off taking Beechview to get there,” Stiles offers, and at Peterson’s grimace, “Turn left. Don’t you have GPS in this thing?” 

Peterson switches the turn signal and angles the nose of the car slightly, taking Stiles’ advice, but he doesn’t look very grateful. 

“So, am I interrogating myself here or what?” Stiles asks once they’ve joined the flow of traffic and the two marshals are still silent. 

“If you like,” Peterson says, surly, ignoring the uncertain look Mitchell throws him. 

“Because it doesn’t take that long to get to Montrose, so if you want to get this interview finished in time for the next one—“ 

“Jesus Christ,” Peterson snarls, switching lanes abruptly. “We’re not going to interview you.” 

“Uh—“ Stiles says, disconcerted. 

“Gary, we were going to ask him some questions,” Mitchell says tentatively. 

“We were going to pretend to interview you so you didn’t get suspicious, but you’re so annoying I can’t pretend to care about your answers.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says breathlessly, “fuck,” and tries the door even though they’ve reached the end of the traffic jam and are speeding up. It’s locked. 

“Get his phone,” Peterson says, and Mitchell is fumbling out his service weapon and pointing it at Stiles with a shaky hand, face an apologetic wince. Stiles hands his phone over. 

“We should call the girl,” Peterson says. 

“He’ll warn her,” Mitchell protests. “Her husband will be waiting for us.” 

“Fuck,” Peterson says, and Stiles feels a spike of hope that Peterson is actually listening to Mitchell, hope that Mitchell can talk Peterson out of this, but then Mitchell is saying, “We should kill him before we pick up the girl.” 

“No,” Peterson says. “She won’t answer the door to us alone.” 

“Shoot her through the wood,” Mitchell says, “the way we did with the Sheriff.” 

“He’s still alive,” Peterson says. “I’m not taking any chances.” 

“We don’t want to kill her anyway.” 

“Maybe we should forget about her, since we have this one—“ 

“We need to kill Hale,” Mitchell says. “We need—“ 

“You’re not werewolves,” Stiles says. “Derek would have known.” 

“We were going to be,” Peterson says. 

“Were you—were you part of Dale and Williams’ pack?” Stiles asks. 

“We’re human—“ Peterson starts, but Stiles is yelling, “How the hell do you two idiots get to count as pack?” 

“We’re human!” Peterson yells back. “Dale was going to turn us once we released him, but then Hale killed him!” 

“And now you’re what, starting your _own_ revenger’s tragedy?” 

“We’re going to get Hale to turn us to get you back,” Peterson says, “and then I’m going to kill you both and take his place.” 

“You do realise that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard?” Stiles asks calmly, because it is, for several reasons, but before Peterson can answer Stiles is trying to dive over the front seat at Mitchell, one hand digging into the leather of the seat to gain traction, the other scrabbling at the cool metal of the gun, and he does realise this is the dumbest thing he’s ever done even before Mitchell bites out, “Fuck—“ and pulls the gun away, and then Mitchell’s fist is coming towards his cheek and there’s a blinding pain in his head and everything goes black. 

*

Stiles is surprised when he wakes up. 

He’s surprised he wakes up at all, but he’s more surprised to find himself dumped in a heap on Scott’s armchair, Allison and Melissa sitting on the couch across from him, staring tensely at him. 

Allison’s white face flickers when he opens his eyes, but she doesn’t say anything to draw attention to him. His cheekbone and the back of his skull both hurt, but he can deal, because some things aren’t a choice. 

“—get here?” Peterson’s voice says in the background. “It’s going to be dark soon.” 

“Are werewolves more powerful after dark?” Mitchell asks, skittish. “Maybe we should just tap these guys and get out of here, Pete.” 

“No,” Peterson says. “We’ve put too much into this to walk away now.” 

“I have a bad feeling about this.” 

“They’ll be here soon,” Melissa whispers, eyes on Stiles, hand tightening on Allison’s. 

“Maybe we should just do one of them,” Peterson says, and Mitchell’s gun shoves into the underside of Stiles’ chin. 

“If we’re killing Hale it should be this one,” he says, and Stiles can’t help the sound that escapes him at that. 

“Hey, he’s awake,” Mitchell says, leaning over the back of the chair to get a look at Stiles’ face. “Good, I might feel kind of bad about killing somebody while they’re unconscious.” 

Stiles should be thinking about Derek now, he decides, staring into Allison’s wide eyes; about how maybe he was never actually able to stop loving him, and never will be, though _never_ might not be much of a test, now; about how much he regrets that they never did get to make things quite right; about how ridiculous it is that the thing he’s sorriest about is that he knows Derek’s going to blame himself for that as well as everything else; but he’s too terrified to think about any of that at the moment, and he knows all of it with too bone-deep a certainty to have to bother anyway. 

“Why would you feel bad about that?” Peterson asks. 

“I need to use the bathroom,” Allison says. 

“Again?” Mitchell asks. 

“I’m pregnant!” she says shrilly. “Are you seriously going to ask me to _hold_ it?” 

“No,” Mitchell says, irritated, and when he leans over Stiles to gesture at the bathroom with the gun and say, “Don’t even think about moving, smart guy,” Allison leaps off the couch like a parachuting elephant and clamps onto his wrist. 

“Stiles!” she yells, “Do something!” 

But Stiles is too busy watching Melissa with wide eyes: somehow Peterson’s gun is on the floor and Peterson is in a headlock, face bright red already, expert pressure on his airway rapidly deciding the fight, though he scrabbles helplessly at Melissa’s side in a futile attempt at escape. 

“Stiles!” Melissa yells, and Stiles jumps woozily to attention, but he doesn’t know what to do. 

The back of the chair is protecting Mitchell’s front, so Stiles slithers onto the floor and ducks around it, and then he can’t even kick him in the balls, so he goes for the kidneys instead, and Mitchell lets out a harrumph that Stiles judges a success. 

Allison’s nails are leaving gouges in Mitchell’s wrist, but Mitchell is still tugging on his hand, trying to get the gun free, and when that doesn’t work he backhands her across the face, and when she makes a hurt sound Stiles does too. 

“Bite him!” Melissa is yelling, “Bite him!” 

Stiles looks for somewhere to bite, but Mitchell is wearing a suit and Stiles doesn’t think his teeth are strong enough to penetrate, so he goes for the neck like a vampire, and Melissa is yelling, “Yes, yes, bite him, get it, go for it!” so Stiles feels like he must be doing something right. 

He doesn’t think he’s going to get anywhere with the biting, though, so he abandons that course of action and looks around for a weapon, but when he hits Mitchell over the head with Allison’s iPad, Mitchell has the deep imprint of a set of teeth in his hand, and Allison has his gun in hers. 

Stiles watches as her prisoner loses consciousness and slides to the ground, and then he avoids Allison’s accusing face entirely and looks from the smashed screen of her tablet to Melissa, standing over Peterson with her hands on her hips and the familiar vicious triumph of a satisfied mother on her face. The last time he’d seen that expression she’d been directing it at Chris Argent, what feels like a lifetime and a world ago. 

“You can stop pointing that at him, baby,” she says, but Allison shakes her head. 

“I’m fine. You get Peterson’s.” 

Melissa does, though Peterson looks out for the count. “Stiles, call Derek,” she says. 

Stiles’ fingers shake when he dials. 

Derek’s tone is curt when he answers, until Stiles says, “Derek—“ ragged and broken, and then Derek is speaking so frantically that Stiles can barely pick up a single word. 

“We’re fine,” he says when Derek falls silent, because he assumes that question was in there somewhere. “Peterson and Mitchell are here, they—they were going to kill us, they were trying to get you to turn them and they were talking about killing one of us. Did you know they wanted to be werewolves?” 

Stiles says it— _they’d wanted to be werewolves_ —like they’d wanted to move to Mars, but Derek answers like Stiles is understanding anything right now. 

“No,” he says calmly. “But I suspected they’d helped Paul and Brian escape, and there was nothing else they had to offer as inducement. It doesn’t surprise me.” Stiles’ breathing is evening out, gradually lengthening to match Derek’s, audible over the phone, and he watches idly as Allison relaxes too, eyes on his face as he speaks to their Alpha. “We’ll take care of it, Chris is coming—“ 

Mitchell jerks awake, lunges for Allison, gets his hand on her stomach, and she shrieks and shoots him in the head. 

Derek is still speaking, but Stiles’ mind is a white buzz as he stares at Mitchell’s ruined skull, smashed beyond repair, worse than Allison’s iPad, blood and thick, messy grey matter spilling out on the carpet. 

Allison heaves in a breath, and all she does with it is start wailing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck—“ 

Derek is still speaking, but Stiles drops the phone. 

“Allison!” Melissa says sharply, coming over to her, throwing a suspicious glance over her shoulder at Peterson and then shoving her gun into Stiles’ hand and sending him past her towards Peterson’s supine body, presumably to shoot him in the head also, should it become necessary. “Allison, it’s fine. Calm down, you’re fine.” 

“I am not—“ Allison says, and her face is deathly pale. “I am not fine, I am not—oh, fuck.” 

“You are _fine_ ,” Melissa reiterates, and Allison says, “I am in _labour_ ,” and when she sucks in another breath the exhale is a sound of terror. 

“You’re fine,” Melissa says, though she looks a little white herself. “This is well within a normal birthing schedule, you are fine. And this is nothing, this is nothing to worry you at all, this—“ 

“Scott’s going to freak,” Allison says, head tilted back to the ceiling, breaths shallow and shaky. Melissa’s hands are tight around her upper arms, holding her upright. 

“Scott will listen to his mother when she explains prenatal development and—“ 

“I killed somebody!” Allison says hysterically. “His brains are on our new carpet, Scott will not listen—“ 

“Scott’s killed people,” Melissa says blankly, uncomprehending in the face of Allison’s fear. “Scott’s killed plenty of people, Scott killed your _mother_ , as she would have killed him, and Stiles, and _you_ , in the end, because—“ She cuts herself off abruptly, looking like she regrets that train of thought, and shakes Allison gently. “As mothers do, as you did.” 

For a second, it seems like Allison is willing to go with that, nodding understandingly, but then she shakes her head frantically, a look of horror overtaking her blanched face. 

“No,” she says, “no, he didn’t, he _didn’t_ , he wouldn’t, I can’t—“ 

Her voice is rising, but it’s hysteria, not disbelief. 

“Yes,” Scott’s mother says urgently. “He did.” Her nails bite into Allison’s arms. “Stop this.” 

Allison keeps shaking her head, making distraught noises of denial even as her face twists in pain, as Melissa supports her, the only thing keeping her on her feet. 

“Allison, stop,” Melissa says. “You do not have the right.” She’s looking right into Allison’s eyes, and her voice is kind but unrelenting. “He is the father of the child you are about to have, and you can be angry with him, you can be angry with what he did, but you know why, and you are about to become a mother and you do _not have the right_.” 

Allison stares into Melissa’s face, and then she nods, a wavering motion, but her face firms, gains some colour, and her breathing becomes something Stiles recognises as Lamaze, for his sins. 

“Is that Derek?” she asks after a minute, eyes fixed on the wall. “Is that Derek, is he coming, is Scott coming?” 

And then Stiles has to dive for the phone at his feet and realign the gun on Peterson’s head at the same time. 

*

Stiles doesn’t have much to do while they wait for Derek and Scott to arrive, just puff along uselessly with Allison’s heaving breaths, pat Allison’s hand until she snaps at him and yanks it away, and then obey Melissa when she raises her voice to demand, “A towel, a wet towel, Stiles, right now!” He’s pretty sure she’s just losing her freaking mind, and even she doesn’t know what she would possibly want a wet towel for. 

When he hears the noise of Derek and Scott’s arrival outside, he drops the half-soaked towel in the kitchen sink and rushes back into the living room. 

Scott is kissing Allison’s face, her hair, utterly helplessly, and her hands are tight around his fist, but she holds him off, face strained beneath the messy curtain of her hair, until she draws one more breath with a sound like a sob, and collapses forward into him, hands twisting tightly in his shirt. 

“—fine, you’ll be fine, you’re—“ Scott is mumbling into her shining hair, shaking hands petting the curve of her back carefully. 

“We are leaving for hospital right now!” Melissa says, still kind of crazed. “You’re useless, I’m driving, give me your keys!” 

Scott searches his pockets until he finds them, and maybe it takes him a little longer because he’s only willing to remove one hand from Allison, but it _probably_ takes him longer because his mom is shouting at him while he searches, her panicked, commanding voice blaring, “—idiot, how did I raise such an idiot, how can you not find your keys, we have a _situation_ here!”

When Melissa has the keys in her hand she sprints for the door immediately, stopping only when she realises Scott is still helping Allison up off the armchair, hustling them along with a string of incitements to, “Come on, come on, come on,” until the word loses all meaning. 

 

Derek is standing over Peterson, still prone on the floor. “Aren’t you coming?” Stiles asks. 

“I have to take care of this,” Derek says. 

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Do you need us to stay and give statements?” 

“I’m not staying!” Melissa yells. 

“No,” Derek says, grinning. “I’ll send someone out to the hospital.” 

“Oh.” Stiles had wanted to talk to him, doesn’t really want to leave now, but Allison calls, “Stiles, come on, come on!” and they are not starting up another round of that, so Stiles goes, throwing a glance back over his shoulder at Derek, nudging Peterson’s unresponsive body with his boot. 

*

Allison vanishes once they arrive at the hospital, and after Stiles gets checked out he’s left sitting alone in a corridor for a long time, nothing to do but read yesterday’s newspaper and year-old magazines and think, which is never his favourite thing to do. 

He calls his dad, but Derek has already filled him in, and Stiles smiles wryly, surprised at his lack of resentment. 

Carl Branning shows up to interview him at some point, and tells him Derek is still stuck out at the scene, asks if Stiles knows why Argent is hanging around out there, and then Stiles gets to swap places with Melissa while she takes her turn being questioned. 

Allison actually appears to be asleep, so he takes a quick gander at what’s going on down there under the covering and then really, really regrets it, joining Scott up at Allison’s head and desperately trying to ignore his queasiness. 

“Guess there’s a reason I’m gay,” he says, but Scott says, “No, I’m up here too.” 

“I don’t want you looking!” Allison says suddenly. “Nobody look!” 

“I already looked,” Stiles says, “Sorry.” 

“Oh, you don’t count.” 

“Thanks?” 

“I didn’t look,” Scott says. “I don’t think I want to.” 

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” Stiles says. 

They make idle conversation, nothing important, nothing that really registers with Scott or Allison, he doesn’t think; he spends most of the time with his shoulder pressed solidly against Scott’s as they stand by the bed, which feels like the important thing. 

Allison is asleep again by the time Melissa returns, so Scott can leave the room without too many separation pains, though he makes his mom promise to run get him if anything happens three times before he goes, and then Melissa sends Stiles to get ice-chips for some reason and then very politely throws him out. 

Stiles is back with celebrity breakups—though this celebrity has remarried in the months since the magazine was published—when Scott and Branning emerge. Branning just nods at him and squeaks down the corridor, but Scott comes over and drops into the chair next to Stiles. 

“Nothing, right?” he asks. 

“No.” 

“So—yeah.” 

Scott had been with Derek; he’d heard that conversation over the open phoneline, heard his mother talk Allison down. Stiles doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but what he gets is silence. 

“So,” he prompts. “You and V?” 

Scott shrugs. “She’d been threatening us for a while, and I couldn’t really do anything because of Allison, because she didn’t know. She’d been threatening to hurt you, to hurt—to hurt Allison for a long time, and I never believed her, but then I did, and I—“ 

He swallows, tries to speak again, but just shrugs instead, face wobbling a little. 

“You know.” 

Stiles has seen less people die than you would think, given how many people his best friend has apparently killed, up to and including his wife’s mother; he’s never killed anybody himself. 

“Not really,” he says, and watches as Scott contemplates apologising for keeping him in the dark and decides against it, “but Allison does now.” 

Scott has spent years trying to protect Allison, has murdered to do it, but brightens a little anyway, relieved that he might be understood. 

“Yeah,” he says, heartened, and jerks a thumb towards the delivery room. “I should—“ 

Stiles waves him off, and settles in for the wait, but he doesn’t pick up the magazine again; he has better things to think about now. 

*

Chris Argent shows up shortly afterwards, taking his place at his daughter’s bedside. Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t want to know what it was Chris was doing that kept him away. 

Lydia and Jackson show up at the end of the workday, and Derek isn’t far behind them. 

After flicking through Stiles’ discarded magazine for twenty minutes, Lydia heaves a disgruntled sigh. “Should we go home and wait for word? These things can take hours.” 

They can take days, actually, but Stiles isn’t willing to be the one to jinx Allison. 

“No,” Derek says curtly. 

“Fine,” Lydia says, and stalks off to the vending machine, Jackson in tow. 

“We need to talk,” Stiles says. 

“No, we don’t.” 

Stiles blinks. “Are you mad at me?” 

“No,” Derek says. “I just don’t see the purpose of going through it all when you’re just leaving soon anyway, so why don’t we just—“ 

“Let’s talk,” Stiles interrupts, “about that.” 

“No,” Derek says again, and then Lydia comes back, complaining volubly about the width and quality of the selections on offer in the vending machine, and Stiles settles back into his chair reluctantly, and he and Derek watch each other warily. 

When Lydia goes to the bathroom, Jackson bolts for the front doors, planning to sneak a cigarette, though how the hell Jackson thinks Lydia doesn’t know he smokes Stiles does _not_ understand. 

Derek’s shoulders tense before Stiles gets the first word out, and when he does, he only manages, “So—“ 

“Let’s just not,” Derek says, eyes on the grey-green of the wall opposite. “I really don’t need to hear it.” 

“I don’t think—“ 

“Stiles,” Helen says, because of course his dad phoned her. “How’s she doing?” 

Stiles thinks he manages not to insult his father’s potential girlfriend too badly, though he kind of wants to right now, and then her beeper goes off and she hurries away and Jackson and Lydia still aren’t back, yes! Stiles is choosing to take _that_ as the sign, rather than the two previous interruptions, because he’s decided the universe wants him to have what he wants, and if it doesn’t he’s taking it anyway. 

“You know there’s a teaching job going next year, right?” Stiles says, all in, and Derek’s protest dies unvoiced, but his mouth remains open, eyes wide, and he looks—disbelieving, which was not the reaction Stiles had been hoping for. 

And then Lydia appears, looking around, ignores the elephant, and asks, “How long does it take for one stupid smoke?” just as Jackson sprints around the corner, face falling as he sees her, and then the midwife sticks her head out of Allison’s room and asks, “Who would like to see the baby first?” 

*

Tessa is a big, red ball of mush, pretty much, but everybody in the room is incandescent with happiness, and Stiles makes all the appropriate noises about her awesomeness anyway, and he’s sure they’re true, or they will be once she’s enough of a person to actually _look_ like a proper baby. 

He feels like they’re true. 

After a few minutes, he and Derek trail out to let Lydia and Jackson take their turn, and they walk side-by-side down the corridor, through the doors, and out of the hospital. Stiles tilts his head back to the black sky overhead, breathes in deeply, can’t help the reasonless smile that curls his mouth, and jumps when Derek speaks. 

“I’ll give you a ride home. We need to talk.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says steadily, and he smiles all the way across the hospital lawn, through the parking structure and the drive to Derek’s apartment. 

During the drive, his phone vibrates, a text from an old buddy, checking if he’s back in town, if he wants to meet up for drinks. It takes him a second to place the name. 

“Okay,” he says when Derek stops the car, and gets out without question. 

“You—“ Derek starts, as if he’s actually going to attempt to have this conversation on the pavement outside his apartment building, but then he catches up with Stiles and follows him in. 

The elevator is empty of mommies and buggys for once, and Stiles considers just pushing Derek up against the wall and going to town, get some of his jumpiness out, but he doesn’t think that would help _Derek’s_ jumpiness, so he keeps his hands to himself and lets Derek lead the way into the apartment, and when he stops once, halfway down the corridor, to look at Stiles over his shoulder, totally bewildered, Stiles even waits for him to start moving again and doesn’t shove him towards his door, the way his palms are itching to. 

“So I don’t care what you say,” Stiles says defiantly, watching as Derek puts his hand on the door and uses the weight of his whole body to close it, propped up against it with his head bent and his eyes closed. “I’m staying anyway, you can’t make me go this time.” 

“Stiles,” Derek says, pinching the bridge of his nose, like he’s getting a headache or something, even though werewolves don’t _get_ tension headaches and there’s no reason for Derek to be tense anyway, because Stiles is _perfectly_ willing to help out with that. “I never wanted you to leave.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, though it feels like they’re changing tracks, because the destination is in view and he doesn’t want to make any more layovers. “But I don’t think that matters. You don’t get to make that choice. You didn’t then.” 

“It was dangerous,” Derek snaps, turning to face him. “It was necessary.” 

“It was my life!” 

“Exactly!” 

“You know, this argument is pointless,” Stiles says calmly. “Because after everything that’s happened, I’m never going to listen to anything you say again anyway, so it’s in your best interest to start telling me stuff.” 

“That—“ Derek is struggling to come up with a response, as he should be, because Stiles’ logic is impeccable, and Derek needs to recognise. 

“So that’s what’s going to happen,” Stiles says. “My dad will need someone to stay with him for a while, so living with him won’t be embarrassing or anything, and we can just—“ Stiles makes a wide, circular gesture with his hands, encompassing everything and the kitchen sink besides. “—see how things go.” 

“You’re just doing this because Scott told you he’s making you godfather,” Derek accuses. 

Stiles flushes pink with pleasure. “Nah, man,” he says sheepishly, ducking his head. “Did he say that? Because I _would_ , don’t get me wrong, but that isn’t why. I never wanted to leave either. And I don’t want to now.” 

“You have a life,” Derek says. “You have friends, you—“ 

Stiles is shaking his head. “I don’t have anything I want more than what’s here,” he says, and because he’s looking at Derek when he says it he can see that Derek doesn’t believe him. 

“Okay, so—I wasn’t going to tell you this, but—“ Derek is watching him gravely, and Stiles can feel the remnants of smile slip off his own face. “I loved you.” Derek makes a movement, something that’s trying to be denial, so Stiles hurries on. “When you told me to leave back then, I wasn’t going to tell you that, I was going to tell you less than that, but—it was true. I loved you.” He swallows around the lump in his throat, eyes on the carpet. This is embarrassing. His face is burning. “And I don’t know if—I want to know if I can have that now. I don’t know, but I want to try, I want to find out—“ 

Derek is in front of him suddenly, Stiles’ vision taken up by his shirt, and his hands are gentle on Stiles’ hot cheeks as he lifts Stiles’ head for his kiss, a slow question that Stiles tries to answer. 

“Okay,” Derek says, “We can—“ 

Stiles pulls away to say, “Plus, now my dad will _kill_ you if you ever do anything to me again,” and Derek is grinning as he grabs Stiles’ tshirt and pulls him into the bedroom. 

Derek is heavy when he collapses on top of Stiles on the bed, lips dragging over the skin of his jaw, and it’s nice to be held, to be anchored by Derek’s weight. They scuffle together to remove each other’s clothes, and when they get down to skin Stiles can’t stop touching. 

Derek strokes over his limbs, arms and legs and down to his feet, and he laughs when Stiles kicks him because the soles of his feet are sensitive. Stiles rolls Derek onto his back and puts a hand in the centre of his chest to keep him there, so he can look, finally, all he wants to. Derek’s lips curve and the corners of his eyes crinkle, willing and amused, though he has no idea what Stiles is looking at. Mostly Stiles is looking at his face now anyway, so he relaxes onto Derek’s chest to kiss him again, still lush and mindless and long. 

Stiles spends some time figuring out Derek’s body, then, where he likes to be touched, the strange places he doesn’t, like behind his left kneecap, and then Stiles figures out where he likes pressure, deep suction, teeth, and where a glancing brush of lips will get more of a reaction. 

When Stiles touches Derek’s left elbow—not even the fragile skin of his inner elbow, just the sandpapery stuff that covers the bone—and Derek nearly elbows him in the face to get him to stop, he asks, “So are you going to give me any pointers here, or?” 

It takes a minute for Derek to reply, “Where’d the fun be?” His voice is dazed. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, unsteady laughter colouring the word. 

He drops down to lick at Derek’s cock, lick around it, more a tease than anything, and then Derek’s hand is on his head, nudging him down, so Stiles licks at Derek’s balls, takes one in his mouth, and then Derek nudges him down again. 

Stiles has to let it go to follow Derek’s direction; he makes a surprised sound when he releases it, but Derek touches his head again and Stiles goes. 

Stiles doesn’t really like doing this, but when he sweeps his tongue over Derek’s hole, Derek moans and his whole body jerks, and by the time Stiles has all that dark pink skin wet the sounds Derek is making are almost shouts, worked up as he’s gotten, so quickly, and Stiles puts his hands on Derek’s vulnerable stomach before he eagerly pushes his tongue inside. 

He isn’t really sure what to do then, just goes on instinct, and he seems to figure it out pretty quickly, judging by the reaction he gets. He figures out what Derek likes here too, slow withdrawals and sharp sucks around his rim, and then when Stiles kisses it like Derek had kissed him, all wet and deep and endless, Derek comes off the bed, dislodges Stiles. 

When Derek sinks back down he pulls away, reaches over to the locker for the same tube they’d used last time. Stiles is surprised when Derek hands it to him, and Derek is impatient, unscrewing the cap for Stiles and squeezing, getting most of it into Stiles’ palm. 

Stiles is good at this, so he knows Derek will like it, and he’s careful, because he doesn’t think Derek looks like he’s sure. 

Derek’s legs fall open when Stiles gets the second finger in, tension leaving his body all at once. Stiles kisses the inside of his knee. “You’re good at this,” he says, because it’s true. “Tell me what you like.” 

He asks just before he slides as deep as he can, brushes his fingers over Derek’s prostate, so the response is immediate. 

“There,” Derek says breathlessly, leg spasming. “That, that, there—“ 

Stiles hums, kisses Derek’s leg again, though they’re wide open now and he can only reach Derek’s thigh. His dick is throbbing, getting the sheets underneath him wet, but he doesn’t really think about it until Derek reaches down and pulls his fingers out, groaning at the last drag. 

Derek wraps his legs around Stiles when he works his way up Derek’s body. When he flips them over Stiles thinks he’s changed his mind, but then he’s reaching down to take Stiles’ dick in hand, positioning it blindly and sinking down. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, eyes shutting against the feeling. 

Derek starts moving right away, awkward motions quickly fading into an easy ride. 

“Lydia’s never going to let me forget this,” Stiles says dreamily. 

Derek puts his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re not telling Lydia about this.” 

“Not about this,” Stiles says indignantly. “About—“ 

The change in position did something good for Derek; he’s getting noisy, tightening up around Stiles and staying pressed all the way down, shoving as hard as he can against Stiles, trying for more, deeper. 

Stiles puts his hands on Derek’s hips and starts moving, suddenly aware that he really hasn’t been doing his part to make this work, but all he has in him are slow rocks, helpless liquid pushes of his hips into Derek, because he thinks it’s as good as it can get already. 

“Or Scott,” Derek says suddenly. “He told me what you said.” 

Stiles laughs unexpectedly, body jerking under Derek, inside him, and Derek is sitting up again and Derek’s hand is on his own cock, pulling frantically until he’s spilling all over Stiles’ skin, getting it everywhere. 

He sinks down when he’s done, sweat and come sticking their bellies together, and Stiles’ hips snap up, urgent now, and he tumbles Derek onto his back so he can spread him wide and get where he wants to be, move the way he needs to. 

Orgasm hits him like a kiss, that first kiss such a short time ago, like Mitchell’s fist, blinding colours and sparks and darkness. 

He’s on his back again when he comes out of it, but Derek is still beside him and they’re both still filthy. 

“Don’t you have superfast werewolf recovery time?” Stiles asks. “We’re saying clean-up is your job, okay?” 

Derek just grunts, nosing at Stiles’ armpit, breathing in deep, and maybe attempting to make a werewolf wash away come isn’t going to be a successful endeavour. 

“I can’t sleep like this, though,” Stiles says, though his eyes are already drooping, and Derek unbends enough to wipe them off cursorily with the sheet before dumping it onto the floor, and then he licks at the bits he missed until he’s satisfied. 

“Fine,” Stiles allows. “We can work on your domestic skills. Add it to the pile.” 

And then he’s done, he’s pretty sure. 

There’s a lot going on in Stiles’ head in the moment before he falls asleep: that he should call his dad; and how happy Scott’s going to be to have somebody to spaz at; and the new niece he has, and screw anybody who says she isn’t, who probably isn’t as ugly as he’s remembering her; and the warmth of Derek’s body as he curls around Stiles, his easy, comfortable closeness as he lets his head come to rest on Stiles’ shoulder; and everybody who’s going to be at the hospital tomorrow, so many people it’ll be like a party and they’ll have to have one of those when Allison is released; whether buying a massive stuffed pink teddy is gender-essentialist; and whether it’s worth turning to kiss Derek back, because that feels nice; and the best thing, the absolute _best_ thing is that he doesn’t have to think about any of it now. 

It will keep. 

end

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Hyper Heart Alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/492899) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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